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" You felt as if you were 
somewhere in France." 



LOAFING DOWN 
LONG ISLAND 



BY 
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 

WITH DRAWINGS BY 
THOMAS FOGARTY 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1921 



.Lsri^f 



Copyright, 1921, by 
The Centuby Co. 



W 27 1921 
0)CI.A6145;j6 



^^•<S^ 



TO 

JIM, ALEC. FEB, GORDON 

and ERNEST 
COMPANIONS ALONG THE WAY 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTEa PAGE 

1 On the Difficulties of Walking ... 3 

II Really Getting Started 32 

III Along Sunlit and Moonlit Roads . . 49 

lY Getting Along to Shinnecock ... 85 

V From Southampton to Montauk Point . 111 

VI America's Mad Playground, Coney 

Island 129 

VII Sag Harbor and the North Shore . . 159 

VIII The Middle of the Slice 189 

IX Oyster Bay and Roundabout Roslyn . . 201 

X Dinner Among the Stars . . . . . 209 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAOB 

You felt as if you were somewhere in 

France Frontispiece 

Queensboro Bridge 5 

But we spurned all such advances, kindly as they 

were meant 14 

Guttersnipes are bathing along the shore ... 19 
A cafe or two that once might have proved an oasis 

in this wasteland 25 

And such clam chowder as it was ! 33- 

I was awakened by the crowing of a cock . • • 37 '^ 
A pair of stout young women, puffing and blowing 

up a little rise of land 41 

Idleness and I 45 

We hailed several cars. They did not stop . . . 53 
We bumped contentedly along, getting dustier and 

dustier 60 

The one sluggish waiter on duty 65 

There were many little roads tempting us out of the 

beaten paths 73' 

Blue Point 78 

There are eyes watching you 96' 

Our hearts ached for them 102 

The glowing sands of pleasure 113 

What a place for the allotted days of one's span . 119 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

With its great eye to the limitless ocean . . . .124 

Montauk Point 127 

The wonderful city of magic . . .... 134 

A slice of Coney Island 139 

Toboggans that splash 147 

You wouldn't stop now for the world . . . -154 
Water is to a landscape what eyes are to a human 

face 164 

Shelter Island 167 

Caruso's voice coming from a phonograph . . -179 

Riverhead 186 

We grew mighty weary 191 

Smithtown 197 

Roslyn 203 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

CHAPTER I 

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

WHEN I speak of the difficulties of walk- 
ing, I do not refer to the infirmities of 
age, to flat feet, or to avoirdupois. Not at all. 
I mean that it is hard indeed in these rushing 
times to go afoot, even on the most distant by- 
roads, without being considered eccentric. Peo- 
ple stare at you as though you were some kind of 
freak or criminal. They cast suspicious glances 
your way, never dreaming that perhaps you pre- 
fer your own feet as a means of pleasant locomo- 
tion. 

I asked a certain friend if he would not ac- 
company me on my weekly jaunts down Long 

3 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Island. I could not arrange to go for one lengthy 
stay, and neither could he, I knew; so I thought 
the next best thing was to do it by piecemeal 
rather than not at all, and I planned to save time 
by walking a certain distance, following a road 
map, return by train on Monday mornings, and 
then take a train out again to the spot where I 
had left off the previous week. That seemed 
practical, novel, yet simple and well worth while. 
To live with a Blue Bird at one's door, and never 
know it, seems to me, as it seemed to Maeterlinck, 
the height of folly. I would discover the Blue 
Bird that was so happily mine, and hear its song 
on rosy summer mornings, three and even four 
days at a time, or perish in the attempt. 

Well, my friend turned to me and instantly 
said: 

"My car is out of order." 

"But I did not mean to go in a car," I as 
quickly answered. 

"Why," he replied, looking at me as though I 
had gone quite mad, "how else would we go*?" 

"On foot," I bravely made answer, yet re- 

4 







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ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

alizing that this confirmed New-Yorker would 
never think the same of me again. And it was 
so. I shall not forget, if I live a hundred years, 
his final disgusted glance. If anything further 
was needed to crush me utterly, I do not know 
what it could be. 

But one's friends are not the only difficulty that 
stand in the way of a loitering gait. I found, 
fortunately, just the right companion for my 
first journey, and when I told a few young col- 
lege fellows of my plan, fellows who were free 
for the summer, they asked if they, also, could n't 
be booked up for certain Thursdays until Mon- 
day; and before I knew it, I had a line of ap- 
plications, as though I were handing out coupons 
instead of the possibility of aching feet and per- 
spiring brows. 

On the first day when we fared forth — it was 
with a friend named Jim — we had no sooner 
started to cross the great Oueensboro' Bridge, 
which hangs like a giant harp over the East River, 
drawing Long Island into a closer brotherhood 
with New York, than we had offers of lifts from 

7 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

total strangers. Yet they say Manhattan is a 
cold city ! We never found it so, at least not on 
that wonderful July evening when we started out 
with scrip and staff; for we had decided that as 
we were going to do so old-fashioned a thing as 
walk, we would carry old-fashioned parapher- 
nalia, called by pleasant, old-fashioned names. 
Bundle and cane ill comported with so quiet a 
pilgrimage as ours was to be. We would imagine 
ourselves travelers in Merrie Old England in a 
season now sadly gone. We would wear old 
clothes, and take not one article with us that we 
did not actually need. No burdens for our city- 
tired backs; only the happy little necessary im- 
pedimenta, such as a toothbrush, a razor, a comb, 
an extra shirt or two, and the one tie we wore. 
And of course a book. I chose Hazlitt's "Table 
Talk," Jim took George Moore's "Avowals," all 
the spiritual food we needed. 

It takes no little courage to walk over a bridge 
that leads out of crowded Manhattan. Not that 
you want to stay in the thundering city; but this 
is a dangerous way to get out of it alive. You 

8 



ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

feel like an ant, or like one of those infinitesimal 
figures in a picture which gives a bird's-eye view 
of "our village." To discover your own lack of 
importance in a busy, whirling world, I would 
prescribe the perils of walking in and immediately 
around New York. Never does one feel so small, 
so absolutely worm-like. If you wish to pre- 
serve your life, your day is one long series of 
dodges. Pedestrians are not popular with mo- 
torists, and virtually every one is a motorist now- 
adays. If you walk up the Rialto of a morning, 
you are convinced that every one on earth wishes 
to become, or is, an actor. If you edit a popular 
magazine, you know that every one has literary 
ambitions. But if you walk over Queensboro' 
Bridge or any of the other gateways that lead out 
into the country, you are certain that there is not 
a human being except yourself who does not own 
a car. 

Where do they come from, these gorgeous and 
humble machines'? And whither are they going ^ 
How many homes have been mortgaged in order 
that Henry and Mary may take a trip each week- 

9 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

end? What necessities of life have been relin- 
quished so that the whole family may speed to 
the seashore at the first touch of warm weather*? 
It is an exhilarating, healthful pastime, but I 
have only one friend who motors to my liking — 
that is, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. My 
other acquaintances employ chauffeurs who suffer 
from the great American disease, speed, and they 
are whizzed here and there, often against their 
wills, I grant you, and they expect me to care 
for this abominable way of traveling. The hill- 
sides rush by; you see nothing, you hear nothing 
save the voice of the siren, and you arrive at your 
destination a physical and mental wreck, with 
eyes that sting and ears that hum. No sooner 
is your body normally adjusted than luncheon is 
over, and you are told to get back into the car 
that you may all rush madly to the next town. 
There is a strange and inexplicable desire in every 
chauffeur I have ever seen to overtake the machine 
just ahead of him. Every turn reveals a line of 
motors dashing, as yours is, to Heaven knows 
where; and if you toot your horn and pass one 

lo 



ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

triumphantly, there is, as always in life, another 
victory to be won the instant you overcome the 
immediate obstacle. Why not sit back and let 
the other fellow pass you? But no one will in 
America. It seems to be a long, delirious race for 
precedence, and motoring, instead of being the 
delight it should be, has become a nightmare to 
me. One of these days I am going to have a 
car of my own, run it myself, and go where and 
when I please; for no one loves motoring more 
than I when it is really motoring and not a sud- 
den madness. That is why, on this occasion, I 
preferred the jog-trot afoot; and that is why Jim 
and I marched forth on a certain day, with minds 
free from tire troubles, and no intention of get- 
ting anywhere in particular until it suited our 
royal convenience. We had thoroughly made up 
our minds on that. We would lunch or sup 
where it suited our whim, and we would n't look 
at our watches, but would seek to allay our hun- 
ger only when we felt healthily hungry. And 
we knew we would sleep all the better for so real 
a spirit of freedom. 

11 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

That first afternoon we walked to Long Island 
City over the bridge, for we wanted the thrill of 
getting out of town on foot, not through the more 
comfortable process of a train or a motor. Be- 
sides, it would savor somewhat of cheating, if we 
started out on a walking tour seated in a com- 
muter's coach. Yet it was not always our in- 
tention to walk. We made up our minds that 
sometimes we would steal rides, or beg for them, 
or take a train over an uninteresting part of the 
country. And if I could locate my slow-driving 
friend this summer, I intended to ask him to loaf 
with me in his car sometime. 

There is one charming thing about New York: 
you can go anywhere and dress as you please and 
attract not the slightest attention. Our knicker- 
bockers and a duffle-bag were nothing to anybody ; 
neither was the Japanese staff I carried, which 
some friends had just brought to me from the 
land of Nippon. People are too preoccupied to 
give you even a cursory glance. 

We knew there was apt to be nothing at all 
interesting just over the bridge; for we had mo- 

12 




1 



ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

tored that way too frequently, and Long Island 
City, I was well aware, was nothing to see. It 
was like a poor relative of the metropolis, a per- 
son that a rich man paid to remain hidden away 
in the country, shabby beyond belief, and with no 
knowledge of city ways, none of the coquetry of 
young and smiling sophisticated Miss Manhattan. 
It was dusk when we started to cross the great 
bridge, and, as I have said, motors were cluttered 
at the entrance and were doubtless thick upon it, 
running like a continuous black chain to the 
island. During the War, soldiers often stood at 
this entrance of the bridge, waiting to be given a 
lift; and this may be the reason why so many 
motorists still think of every pedestrian as worthy 
of a ride, and why it was that so often we were 
invited, as we strolled along this open pathway, 
to move more swiftly to the other side. But we 
spurned all such advances, kindly as they were 
meant; for on one's first day out, the legs are in 
good condition, and there is a certain pride in 
wishing to strut it alone without even the aid of 
one's staff. 

15 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

The sky-scrapers loomed in the growing dark- 
ness, as we proceeded on our way, like a Baby- 
lonian vision; and one by one the lights blos- 
somed in tall windows, until the city behind us 
was a vast honeycomb of beauty, with the river 
like a silver girdle surrounding it. Ahead of us 
smoke-stacks belched forth their black substance, 
and one pitied the folk who, having worked all 
day in glorious Manhattan, must turn at evening 
to the hideous prospect beyond the river, when 
they might have remained in this jeweled place. 
Gasometers reared their horrid profiles, and chim- 
neys, like a battalion of black soldiers, stood mo- 
tionless in the growing darkness. It was to such 
a place the people were surging, leaving glorious 
New York. Jim and I loitered long on that 
bridge. 

All of us who live in New York have motored, 
at one time or another, over Queensboro' Bridge; 
but how few of us have walked its delectable 
length I Like all Manhattanites, we leave such 
pleasant experiences to the foreigners who come 
to our shores. But even they have not discovered 

16 



ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

it as they may within a few years. There are 
benches along its pathway, and here one may 
pause and sit in the sunset, as if one were in a 
stationary airplane, and view the vast city spread 
out in a wonderful pattern below. There are 
glimpses of little parks, and the spires of the 
cathedral are silhouetted against the background 
of the west. Guttersnipes are bathing along the 
shore, and you wonder why rich folk do not pur- 
chase houses on this river-bank, where they might 
have their own private pavilions and a view that 
can hardly be matched. What is the matter with 
New-Yorkers'? 

Then there is Blackwell's Island, with its piti- 
fully blind windows. It must be hard enough 
to be confined on an island without the added 
horror of tightly closed and sealed shutters of 
heavy iron. Not content with keeping prisoners 
segregated, they shut out any chance of a view — 
or perhaps we would all want to go to Blackwell's 
Island I The keepers' houses are beautiful in de- 
sign, and it gives one a sense of omnipotence to 
sit above them and see them from the air — peo- 

17 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

pie walking or running hither and thither on 
graveled pathways, ships floating by on each side 
of them, and a look of peace about a place that 
must be anything but peaceful. What a fine 
residential spot this would make, and how sad 
it is that it must be utilized, a veritable garden- 
spot, for the safe-keeping of the criminal I 

Like most beautiful things, Manhattan, at 
once the ugliest and the loveliest city on this con- 
tinent, gained by distance; and I could not help 
remembering, as I looked back upon it now, its 
hideous, mean little streets, its pitiful and cruel 
slums, its unsavory odors; and as I wandered away 
from it, I knew it could never deceive me. I 
knew it too well. On its granite heart I, like 
many another, had suffered and wept, though 
also I had laughed there; and some lines began to 
sing in my head, and over on Long Island, much 
later that night, when we had reached the real 
country, I put them down on paper. 

We left the city far behind ; 
Ahead, the roadway seemed to wind 
Like something silver white. 
18 



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" Guttersnipes are bathing along the shore " 



ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING 

For dusk had long since dwindled down, 
And now the trees were strangely brown, 
And dogs barked in the night. 

The moon was up, a monstrous pearl, 
As fair as any mortal girl ; 

Stray cars went singing by. 
Far, far away the city gleamed 
Like something that the heart had dreamed — 

A golden butterfly. 

It sprawled against the velvet night; 
It could not rise and take its flight. 

Although its wings uncurled. 
And you and I were glad to go 
And leave its prison, even so. 

And pace the lonelier world. 

O city, with your splendid lies. 
That look of wonder in your eyes. 

We left you far behind ; 
And though you stared with horrid stare 
Into the moonlit heaven there, 

*T was you, not we, were blind ! 



21 



CHAPTER II 

REALLY GETTING STARTED 

IT is curious how, the moment you set out to 
do anything in this troubled world, you im- 
mediately encounter opposition. When I told 
certain friends that I intended to loiter down 
Long Island in July, they held up their hands in 
horror, like my motor acquaintance, and instantly 
asked: "Why that, of all places^ And why in 
summer? You will be overcome by the heat; 
you will be taken sick, and what you began with 
enthusiasm will end in disaster." And this, too: 
"But what will you do for clean linen, and how 
do you know the inns will not be too crowded, 
and you may not be able to get a room*?" 

I could go on indefinitely, giving a litany of 
friendly counsels and objections. Why people 
are so interested in telling us what we must not 
do has always been a mystery to me. It was as 

22 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

if they were to take these little journeys, not I. 
Having made up my mind to do anything, I 
usually find a way to do it; and one learns by 
hard experience that if one takes the advice of 
this or that friend, one ends by sitting at home 
when a delectable trip is planned. So I waved 
all objectors aside, and, though smiled upon in 
some cases and almost sneered at in others, I set 
forth as I determined, trusting to Heaven that 
it would not pour rain on that first evening out, 
so that my ardor, as well as my clothes, would be 
instantly dampened, and I would appear rather 
ridiculous to the few people who saw us off. 

But it did not rain; and for an afternoon in 
late July it was gloriously cool. So, said Jim 
and I, the Fates were with us; we had won at 
least the favor of the gods. 

Like every great city. New York is not easy 
to get out of. It is like nothing so much as a 
huge scrambled egg, or a monstrous piece of dough 
that not only covers the dish, but runs over the 
sides of it; and you can ride seemingly forever 
in the subway or on the elevated road and still be 

23 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

within the confines of this mighty place, and won- 
der, like the old lady who was standing in a train 
to the Bronx, if anybody had a home. "Ain't 
nobody ever goin' to get out^" you remember she 
asked at length, weary of hanging on a strap. 

Beyond the Queensboro' Bridge there is a flat 
and de'solate-enough looking stretch of roadway, 
partly artificial; a piece of land that was put there 
for purposes of utility only, so that motorists, 
pedestrians, and trolley passengers may make as 
speedy an exit as possible from the roaring town. 
You wonder how anything could be quite so for- 
lorn. It is as sad as an old torn calico skirt; and 
to add to the sadness, a cafe or two that once 
might have proved an oasis in this wasteland 
stares at you with unseeing eyes. The blinds 
have long since been closed, and the windows arc 
mere ghostly sockets. Lights used to gleam from 
them at evening; but now the old gilt signs that 
told of cool and refreshing beer, dip in the dusk, 
and hang as a king's crown might hang from his 
head after the Bolsheviki had marched by. It 
gives one a sense of departed glory. There is a 

24 




w^ 



I 



o 

i 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

tatterdemalion effect in these suspended haunts of 
revelry that brings a sigh to the lips. Nothing 
is so tragic as these innocent, deserted, road-houses, 
save possibly a table filled with empty wine- 
glasses after a night of festivity — and the knowl- 
edge that there is no more wine in your cellar. 

Let me make my first confession right here and 
now. I must pause to tell the anguishing truth 
that, disheartened at once by this bleak prospect, 
and knowing that Flushing, with its pretty main 
street and park would quickly delight our spirits, 
Jim and I boarded a packed trolley so that we 
might speedily pass this wretched jumble of noth- 
ing at all. 

Moreover, we had no sooner begun to lurch 
down the line, crushed in with dozens of working 
people on their tired way home, than we dis- 
covered we had taken the wrong car. Instead 
of going straight to Flushing, we were on the 
way to Corona, which I had vaguely heard of 
once or twice, with no real knowledge as to where 
it was. We found we could transfer there, and 
would not waste so much time, after all. 

27 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

It gives you a feeling of extreme youth to be 
lost so near a city where you have always lived, 
and Jim and I could not help laughing at what 
we called an "experience." I was glad we had 
made the mistake, for at the cross-roads, if the 
inhabitants of Corona will forgive me for calling 
two intersecting streets of their humming little 
town that, I ran into a young fellow standing on 
the corner who regaled me, as we waited for our 
car, with the gossip of the village. He had 
knowledge of every motion-picture star in the 
world, it seemed, and he loved talking about 
them. There were prize-fights — amateur ones, 
of course, — about every evening, and he himself 
had taken part in many a tussle, and was so proud 
of his strength that he invited me to put my hand 
on his arm to convince me of the iron sinews 
therein. I must say that, having done so, I would 
have staked all I had on him in any bout. He 
was of that lithe, panther-like type which is so 
swift in the ring, and he told me so many happy 
little stories of himself as a pugilist that Jim 
and I took quite a fancy to him, and even went 

28 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

so far as to ask him to dine with us at White- 
stone Landing, whither we were bound. He had 
one of those engagingly simple personalities that 
win you at once, and he said he would like to 
come, oh, very much indeed, but he had dined 
sometime ago (people in the country always seem 
to sit down to "supper" at five o'clock or so) 
and, well, ahem I he did n't quite know what he — 
And he started to step back from the curb where 
he had been talking, and glanced over his shoul- 
der so many times that finally my eye followed 
his, and I saw what I should have seen before — 
a pretty girl, of course. And of course she was 
waiting for him. 

And what did he care about two stupid stran- 
gers and their fine shore dinner when he had this 
up his sleeve all the while? I told him how 
sorry I was that we had detained him even a 
second. He smiled that winning smile of his, 
darted across the road, and seized his girl around 
the waist in the tightest and most unashamed 
squeeze I have ever seen, and was off down the 
street, his very back expressing his happiness. 

29 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Well, Bill Hennessy, I '11 never see you again 
in this mixed-up world, but I certainly wish you 
well, and if our paths ever do cross again, I hope 
to see several strapping little Hennessys around 
you. 

Our trolley came at just the right moment 
thereafter, for we felt strangely lonely there on 
the corner, with Bill and his joy gone down the 
street, and as we sagged into Flushing we grew 
hungrier and hungrier. Yet we determined we 
would walk through the scented dark to White- 
stone Landing. Bill had told us the exact road 
to take; said he 'd often walked there, and now I 
knew with whom! 

It was all he said it was, a lover's lane to make 
the most jaded happy. A path for pedestrians 
ran beside the main road most of the way, soft 
to the feet, and peaceful in the enveloping night. 
The moon had come out brilliantly, and the sky 
was studded with stars. It was getting on to 
nine o'clock, and except for once when I camped 
out in Canada, I did n't know where our beds 
would be that night. It 's a glorious sensation, 

30 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

such ignorance. We were aware that country 
taverns closed early, as a rule, off the beaten 
tracks; but this only added zest to our leisurely 
walk. 

It took us much more than an hour to reach 
Whitestone Landing, which is right on the water, 
and we found a place kept by a Norwegian 
woman; not very much of a place, I must admit. 
There were ugly chromos on the wall of unbe- 
lievably ugly ancestors; but when you have come 
several miles on foot, and suddenly emerge from 
the darkness feeling very tired and hungry, al- 
most any light in any window is thrillingly beau- 
tiful to you. 

"It 's pretty late for supper," was her greeting, 
and our hearts sank; but she must have seen that 
we were woefully disappointed. A hopeful 
"but" immediately fell from her lips. "But 
maybe I can — Say, do you like hamburger 
steak and French fried potatoes and clam chow- 
der?' 

Did we? We followed her right into her cozy 
and clean kitchen, where her husband sat in 

31 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

placid ease, as the husbands of so many land- 
ladies sit always, and the odor of that ascending 
grease — how shall I ever forget it? It smelt as 
I hope heaven will smell. 

And such clam chowder as it was I Thick, 
juicy, succulent, it dripped down our throats 
like a sustaining nectar, some paradisial liquid 
that an angel must have evolved and mixed. I 
dream of having again some day in a certain 
Paris cafe a soup that thrilled me when I first 
tasted of its wonder; but never, never will any- 
thing equal, I am convinced, Madame Bastiens- 
sen's clam chowder. 

We were given beds that night — and how good 
the sheets felt I — for the infinitesimal sum (do not 
gasp, dear reader!) of one dollar each. And the 
next morning I was awakened, only a few miles 
from rushing Manhattan, by the crowing of a 
cock; and when I looked from my window, hap- 
pily energetic as I had not been for many morn- 
ings, I saw wild roses climbing over a fence, and 
caught glimpses of the gleaming little bay, with 
rowboats out even this early. Whitestone Land- 

32 




o 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

ing is a place of house-boats. I had some friends 
once, I remembered, who lived on one all summer, 
and commuted to the city from it. There is a 
boat-house, with a bathing pavilion here, and a 
little steamer plies between Whitestone and 
Clason Point every half-hour, and excursionists 
go over for picnics under the trees, with heavy 
lunch-baskets and half a dozen children at their 
sides. 

Jim and I determined to get an early start, 
and after a breakfast that was almost as good as 
our supper of the evening before (nothing could 
ever taste quite so fine), we set off for Bayside by 
a back road, which Mr. Bastienssen roused him- 
self sufficiently to tell us of. He was a pale, 
weak-eyed, blond little man, who seemed resent- 
ful of most visitors, though common sense should 
have told him that they were exceedingly neces- 
sary if he was to continue his life of large leisure. 

Now, there is nothing I like more than a back 
road, particularly in these days of hurry and 
scurry, and it was a perfect morning to walk any- 
where. The air was like wine, it was not a bit 

35 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

hot, and we made such an early start that we met 
few travelers, and none at all on foot for some 
time. The road curved, after we passed a little 
bridge, and woods on the right almost lured us 
exploringly into them. We did venture to go 
out of our way to see the dewdrops on the leaves, 
but as the sun was kindly that morning and could 
not, in July, be depended upon to remain so, we 
thought it better to get along. A farmer was 
tilling the ground near by, and the smell of the 
earth was good to our nostrils, poor paving-stone 
slaves that we were; and out in a vast potato 
patch the rest of the farmer's family were bend- 
ing over the plants, as serene as if they were 
hundreds of miles from anywhere. Here the 
road turned charmingly, and Jim and I were 
positively singing at our taste of exultant liberty, 
drinking in our joy, and wondering why we had 
never thought of coming out like this before. 
Suddenly, directly around the turning, two 
strange-looking men came running toward us, 
swinging their arms in fiendish fashion. They 
were hatless and coatless, and their shirts, as they 

36 








'■' "^^iPir 



-^- I'A' 






V/* 



" I was awakened by the crowing of a cock " 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

came nearer, were seen to be open at the throat. 
They kept close together, and one of them was 
huge beyond belief, while the other was smallish 
and not given to quite the frantic gesticulations 
of his comrade. 

"Maniacs!" I whispered to Jim, not a little 
alarmed; and it seemed to me I had read that 
there was an asylum somewhere near this spot; 
though on second thoughts it was only a military 
fort. Nevertheless, to see two men running 
amuck this early of a morning, confounded us, 
and we thought we had better get out of their 
way. 

I could see that Jim was as uncomfortably 
frightened as I, though he would not say so. As 
the strangers came nearer, he dodged to one side, 
as did I ; and then, as they passed us without even 
a glance in our direction, we both burst out 
laughing. 

"A prize-fighter, with his trainer, practising 
shadow-boxing!" cried Jim, who knows a lot 
about such things. "And I '11 swear it was 
Dempsey." 

39 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

"I don't believe it," I answered, rather ashamed 
of my inability to recognize such a celebrity of 
the ring. "At any rate, I 'm sure of one thing." 

"What's that*?" 

"It was n't Jack Johnson." And I had to 
hurry ahead, for fear Jim would give me a pu- 
gilistic punch. 

Having met two pedestrians, we of course im- 
mediately met two more; just as, when you go 
down a lonely stretch of road in a car, through 
some mysterious process three or four machines 
will suddenly find themselves bunched together 
at the most narrow and inconvenient spot. This 
time they were a pair of stout young women, in 
sweaters of some heavy material, puffing and 
blowing up a little rise of land, most obviously 
striving to reduce their girth. // faut soufrir 
pour etre belle! They were not a whit em- 
barrassed at running into us, — not literally, thank 
heaven! — and went on their mad way as though 
we did not exist, turning neither to right nor left. 
I remember distinctly that though this was at 

40 




" A pair of stout young women, puffing 
and blowing up a little rise of land " 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

the loneliest of cross-roads, a sign informed any 
one who might pass that this was Fourteenth 
Street. On one side the farm stretched for 
countless acres; on the other the bay loomed large 
and mirror-like in the sun, and ahead of us was 
only an occasional cottage, rather threadbare, 
down-at-the-heels dwellings, some of them, which 
reminded me of old coquettes unwilling to give 
up, and flirting with any passer-by. Fourteenth 
Street, to any New-Yorker, conjures up the pic- 
ture of a busy thoroughfare; and so this sign of 
blue and white, hanging above an empty stretch 
of overgrown weeds, brought a smile to my lips. 
It was on Fourteenth Street, as a child, that I 
had been taken to see Santa Claus in a depart- 
ment-store window; and always the figure is as- 
sociated in my mind with dense crowds in holiday 
spirits, with confetti and other gay reminders of 
Christmas. 

It was at another turning that we came in sight 
of Fort Totten, while across the water Fort Schuy- 
ler stood serenely and firmly, and I knew that 

43 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

City Island wandered out into the sound a little 
farther up on the other side, close to Hart's 
Island. 

I wanted to go to Fort Totten ; but we were in 
no hurry, and I imagined that it must be time 
for luncheon. True to our compact, we had n't 
looked at our watches or asked the time along the 
road. But we had been going steadily for three 
or four hours, I was certain, and Jim suggested 
that we sit under a tree for awhile. The sun was 
fast mounting the heavens, and I found, at a 
cross-roads, just the spot for a still hour or so. 
We had brought some sandwiches along, and there 
was a glen below from which I could hear the 
water gushing. To linger a bit would be de- 
lightful. I had not loafed for so long that it 
would be quite an adventure now. As I dreamed 
on the grass, I began to think in rhyme, as one 
often does when there is n't a thing in the world 
to worry about ; and before I knew it I had made 
this simple song to fit my mood : 

All the drowsy afternoon, 
Idleness and I 

44 




" Idleness and I " 



REALLY GETTING STARTED 

Dreamed beneath a spreading tree, 

Looking at the sky. 
Ah, we let the weary world 

Like a cloud drift by ! 

It was good to get away 

From the town of men, 
Finding I could strangely be 

Just a lad again, 
Hearing only water sing 

In the neighboring glen. 

When had Idleness and I 

Taken such a trip? 
When had we put by before 

Heavy staff and scrip, 
Meeting on a summer day 

In such fellowship? 

Long and long ago, may be, 

I had dared to look 
For a whole, glad, sleepy, day 

In a rushing brook, 
Reading in the haunted page 

Of the earth's green book. 

Then, forgetting what I found 

In the volume old, 
I returned from solitude 

47 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Where the shadows fold, 
Seeking what the foolish seek — 
Empty joy and gold. 

Now, grown wise, I crave again 

Just the simple sky 
And the quiet things I loved 

In the years gone hy. 
We are happy all day long, 

Idleness and I. 



48 



CHAPTER III 

ALONG SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

T T AVING rested royally by the road, we 
•^ •*■ fared on to Bayside; but first we turned 
in at a pair of big gates, thinking we were en- 
tering some rich man's estate, and caring not at all 
whether we were desired or not. "But I hope we 
won't be taken for Bolsheviki," Jim said. 

A man in uniform moved here and there, but 
we did n't pay much attention to this fact, until 
a building loomed ahead of us that could not 
possibly have been a private dwelling. A ser- 
geant and a corporal sat on the veranda, and as 
Jim and I were very thirsty, we asked for a drink 
of water. The sergeant immediately took us 
within, where it was dim and cool, and I noticed 
some barred doors immediately in the center of a 
great space. There was a painful silence all 

49 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

about, but as I went into a little side room to get 
my drink, I heard a click-click^ click-click^ as of 
some one walking up and down with a cane. I 
asked the sergeant what this noise could be, and 
pointed to the barred door, and, my eyes having 
become accustomed to the gloom, I saw the shad- 
owy figure of a young soldier on crutches pacing 
up and down the corridor of a huge cell. 

"Would you like to go in?" the sergeant asked; 
and when I said I would, for I have always been 
interested in prison conditions, he unbolted the 
great door, and the one occupant of the place 
said, "Good afternoon, sir," and seemed really 
glad, as I suppose any one in his situation would 
be, of human companionship. He was lame, and 
I asked him how it came about that a boy 
wounded in the war should be undergoing this 
punishment. "Oh, I overstayed my leave," he 
said; and then I knew we had come right in to 
Fort Totten, having left the main road when we 
entered the gates. 

If, ten minutes before, any one had told me 
that soon I would be talking to a lame and im- 

50 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

prisoned soldier in a dark cell, I would have 
thought him mad. There Jim and I had been 
dreaming and drowsing under a tree in the pleas- 
ant sunshine, and all the while this lame boy, not 
a hundred yards away, had been confined, with 
no glimpse of even "that little tent of blue we 
prisoners call the sky." All the other men, he 
told us, were out in the fields at work; but he, 
because of his lameness, was obliged to remain in 
the ghastly cell. The penalty of courage in the 
war, I suppose. A strange world, my masters, 
more inexplicable every day we live in it! But 
there was one consolation: he was receiving the 
best of medical attention, and he told us he had 
nothing to complain of. 

There is a lovely walk between the fort and 
Bayside, with little red farm-houses here and 
there and more austere, rigorous, dignified homes 
as you approach that town. The road curves, 
and there are soft paths if your feet begin to 
ache; and I remember one house, down by the 
water, with a splendid row of Lombardy poplars 
and small shrubs and bushes like giant mushrooms 

51 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

forming a lane to the bay, a bit of French land- 
scape that was indeed enchanting. A stillness 
seems to brood over this part of the island; but 
suddenly you find yourself on the outskirts of 
busy little Bayside, where many actor folk live in 
the summer, I believe. You see a small Italian 
villa once in a while — the kind of little home 
you'd like to pick up and put in your pocket and 
take away with you, it looks so cozy and com- 
pact, so like a house bought in a toy-shop. 

It was here we got on the main road, where 
there is always much traffic, and where, in con- 
sequence, it is no fun to trudge along on foot. 
We determined we would ask any one who came 
by for a lift, and we hailed several cars. They 
did not stop. I turned to Jim, after the eighth 
or ninth driver had sailed by us, and said : 

"What in heaven's name is the matter with 
us — or with them, rather^ Surely we look like 
respectable piano-tuners, at least." 

A flivver came along just then, with two men 
on the front seat, and a perfectly empty back 
seat. 

52 



.,^^^<ife.^^j^^^^^ 




^^^,». ." 




•o 
^ 
^ 






^ 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

"This will do nicely," we decided; and I put 
up my beautiful Japanese stick, and called out, 
"Say, won't you give us a lift to Douglaston^" 

But they, too, sped on. We could n't under- 
stand it. They had proceeded about fifty yards, 
when we noticed that they slowed up, conversed 
a bit, and then deliberately backed in our direc- 
tion. We ran forward, jumped in, and thanked 
them. 

"But would you mind telling us," Jim asked, 
as we started off at a good clip, "why you did 
not stop for us at once*?" 

Our new friends looked embarrassed, and then 
one of them offered : 

"Well, to be honest, we each have a pint flask 
on our hip, and we thought you might be federal 
agents." 

"We may wear plain clothes, but we 're not 
plain-clothes men," we said, and laughed; and 
then, before we knew it, we had reached Douglas- 
ton, and stopped for a drink of water at a cool- 
looking well I saw that would have delighted the 
soul of Pollyanna; for it bore a neat and hos- 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

pitable sign above it, reading, "All is well." 
Just a mile or so away, on the water, is beauti- 
ful Douglas Manor, which used to be the estate 
of Mr. George W. W. Douglas, a wealthy gentle- 
man who evidently had a consuming passion for 
trees. In 1814 he bought this extensive prop- 
erty from the old Van Wyck family, to whom it 
had come down as a grant from George III. The 
oldest oak-tree on Long Island is here. Some 
one was going to cut this tree down recently, in 
order to build, but a man with a great sense of 
civic pride, Mr. James Hoffman, purchased it in- 
stead, and now it is, happily, to be forever pre- 
served. The old club-house at the manor is the 
original Van Wyck homestead, and a beautiful 
building it is. 

In 1819 Mr. Douglas built the present hotel 
in Douglas Manor, which was his residence. He 
would have no trees disturbed, and the sidewalks 
are made to run about the monstrous umbrellas 
which shield the houses everywhere. There are 
fourteen varieties of beeches, and about twenty- 
five different kinds of evergreens, some of them 

56 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

very rare specimens. One fernleaf beech, in par- 
ticular, is considered a remarkable arboreal thing 
of splendor. It must be about a hundred years 
old. In the manor house ancient mahogany 
bookcases, made in sections, are now here. And 
yet there are those who say that sectional book- 
cases are a comparatively new idea ! 

All over Long Island you see houses with won- 
derful old shingles. Would that we could get 
some like them to-day I There is a feeling of 
permanence about the farm-houses, and some of 
them look as if they almost resented the growth 
of the many roads around them, and the encroach- 
ments of motors chugging and clattering by. Yet 
they manage to preserve their aspect of tranquil- 
lity, and chickens and pigs and goats loiter on 
many a farm-house lawn not many miles from 
New York, as unconcerned by the modern spirit 
of unrest as if a flivver had never passed the gate. 
And there seems to be no real poverty on Long 
Island. You can walk or motor for miles, and 
though a few houses will look shabby, they never 
bear that appearance of downright slovenliness 

57 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

you see elsewhere. There is always a garden, 
however small; and, situated as it is, there is al- 
ways good fishing along the shores, and a real 
livelihood may easily be maintained. Before the 
inevitable arrival of the millionaire. Long Island 
dreamed its days away in happy peace, and many 
a prosperous farmer cannot be driven away, de- 
spite the walled and formal gardens that often 
come to his very threshold. 

We had been captivated by Douglas Manor — 
where, by the way, Jim had taken a swim — and 
were loath to leave it. Good friends had given 
us a fine dinner at the inn, but we would not 
spend the night, determined as we were to push 
on across the island as far as Lynbrook, begging 
or stealing rides if we got too tired. There was 
not much of interest on the way, but with day- 
light saving there were still many hours of the 
afternoon left. It was a sunlit road, with turns 
and shadowy oases now and then to relieve the 
monotony of our walk. We got as far as the 
Oakland Golf Club links, when we found we 

58 




I 






I 



" We bumped contentedly along, getting 
dustier and dustier" 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

were really tired; so we "hooked" a ride on a 
farm-wagon. Maps are the most deceptive 
things in the world. I love to pore over them, 
but I have no sense of direction at all, and when 
a road curves I never remember that that makes 
it all the longer. 

The farm-wagon was not very easy-going; but 
beggars cannot be choosers, so we bumped con- 
tentedly enough along, getting dustier and dust- 
ier, and not caring a whit. The farmer was 
strangely uncommunicative and seemed to take 
no heed of us at all. It was as though we were 
a pair of calves he was taking to market; yes, 
dear reader, I know there is another obvious com- 
parison that could be made. When there came 
a sudden turning to the right, we jumped off, 
and thanked him; but he didn't turn his head 
an inch. We saw that his farm was just at the 
turning, a simple-enough place, and presently a 
boy who must have been his son ran to the fence 
and made strange signs to him; and we realized 
that our silent host had been a deaf-and-dumb 

61 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

man. No wonder he did n't mind having his 
home at a busy cross-roads. They say the motors 
whiz by here in battalions of a Sunday. 

We got another lift later on. Many towns, 
like Floral Park, do not live up to their names; 
they are floral only from the railway station, 
though that is not to be sneezed at, since many 
villages are particularly hideous where the trains 
come in. 

It is curious that on the outskirts of Lynbrook, 
which is a dreary, commonplace, drab, uninter- 
esting little town, there should be a miraculously 
beautiful inn. It is as though a shabby, poor 
old lady suddenly pulled out a wonderful French 
lace handkerchief in a dingy street, and exclaimed, 
"Just look I" This inn (alas I no longer do we 
use the charming word "tavern") is off the beaten 
track, and one has to know of it to reach it; but 
we wanted to get there for a bite of food, since 
our hike had made us desperately hungry again. 
That is one of the many joys of tramping, or 
staying out all day in the open air: you eat like 
a giant. And you sleep like a baby. 

62 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

Beneath an arbor outside, in the moonlight, 
while our sea-bass and our salad and coffee were 
being prepared, we watched two gorgeous pea- 
cocks disporting themselves, and several pheas- 
ants strutted up and down. You felt as if 
you were somewhere in France, for French was 
the language we heard on the other side of the 
grapes, where several waiters were resting and 
smoking after the day's work. The big dinner 
crowd from town had long since gone, and the 
place was completely ours. We had freshened 
up, and it was well on to eleven o'clock when 
we sat down to that delicious little supper. But 
afterwards we found, to our regret, that monsieur, 
who came himself to greet us in a grand chef's 
costume, with picturesque cap and white apron, 
had no rooms for us; his was only a restaurant 
now. 

It was a fearful anticlimax to loiter down to 
the center of the ugly town and have to take 
stuffy rooms that opened almost on the public 
square. But any bed was comfortable after the 
long day outdoors, and though a raucous band 

63 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

played loud tunes beneath us, and motors tooted 
as they swiftly turned corners, I sank into an 
easy slumber, from which I did not awaken until 
a crash of thunder and a vivid flash of lightning 
came toward dawn. 

It had been cool the day before, but this storm, 
like many another, simply made the atmosphere 
heavy and more oppressive — so heavy that we 
had n't the heart to go back to our French inn for 
breakfast, as we had planned to do. Instead, we 
ate what we could get in a sad room where the 
chairs were piled on the tables, until they formed 
a fence around us, and a trying light from a sky- 
light revealed a dirty ball-room floor. Covered 
drums were on the musicians' stand, — would that 
they had been muffled during the night I — and the 
one sluggish waiter on duty wandered about 
among this tattered place of artificial flowers like 
a lost soul, fetching a spoon now, a fork later, 
and some coffee, when it suited his, and the cook's, 
convenience. The heavy red plush hangings, 
with the dust only too evident in the garish 
morning light, were draped back with cheap brass 

64 




' The one sluggish waiter on duty " 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

cords, and we could hardly wait to get out of 
such a place. Any road, no matter how hot, 
would be better than this. It was like viewing 
a soiled ball-gown at nine in the morning, with 
a grotesquely painted face above it. 

All the towns and villages along the South 
Shore between, say, Lynbrook and Bayport are 
but a means to an end — the reaching of the real 
outskirts, those more fascinatingly informal places 
that lead to Shinnecock Hills. Such spots as 
Freeport, Massapequa, Merrick (although one 
must say a kindly word for this charming little 
residential neighborhood), Babylon, Bay Shore, 
and even Islip, are too hard-heartedly decent in 
aspect to give one any sense of comradeship; and 
Jim and I, like everybody else, had motored 
through or to them so often that they were an 
old story to us. One wishes to pass them over 
on a jaunt such as ours, though remembering by- 
gone happiness in them, as one would skip unin- 
teresting passages in an otherwise good book — a 
book one had dipped into many times, so that one 
knows the very paragraphs to avoid. There are 

67 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 



n 



some splendid estates along the Merrick Road, 
and I suppose the total wealth here would amount 
to an unbelievable sum; but mixed in with places 
that the architects have striven to make lovely, 
and succeeded in their efforts, are too many 
nouveau-riche dwellings that must belong to the 
period of Brooklyn renaissance. Oh, how I de- 
test Mansard roofs I and one sees plenty of them 
here. Bits of water, like little mirrors, break the 
monotony of a long motor ride through this re- 
gion, and a bridge and a stretch of hedge every 
now and then do much to vary the scene. Yet, 
taken all in all, it is an area that has never 
thrilled me. William K. Vanderbilt kept up a 
vast park at Islip, and seemingly for miles there 
is a high iron fence, and a warning to keep out 
(as if one could ever get in), and a statement to 
the effect that this is a private preserve, where 
birds and fish and game are raised, and allowed 
to increase and multiply like so many dollars in 
a remote vault. 

Other multimillionaires, I am told, raise horses 
round about, and behind tall brick walls and 

68 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

solid green hedges is many a beautiful home that 
the mere wayfarer cannot view; only the elect 
who professionally go to week-ends and drink in 
the delights of the greensward and the golden 
private beaches, and whisper of them afterward 
to the less favored in town. 

Just outside Lynbrook, on this muggy morning, 
we had the energy to start down the Merrick 
Road, knowing full well it was a place for mo- 
torists only, with no scrap of a path, save here 
and there, for pedestrians. We did it, knowing 
how stupid we were. We did not like the 
thought of a train, and we said to ourselves that 
surely some kind-hearted driver or truckster would 
give us a lift. It is more difficult, however, as 
we soon discovered, for two people to be taken 
care of in this way than one. We were passed 
scornfully by several times, and even suspicious 
glances were cast our way. 

"Revenue officers again they think us, getting 
the evidence in pairs," I said. "How times have 
changed I A year ago such a situation would 
have been impossible." 

69 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Then Peter came along. Peter drove a great, 
strong, massive truck, and he sat triumphantly 
alone on an unbelievably wide seat, with little 
baggage; none, apparently, from our point of 
vantage. We hailed him, and he instantly 
stopped in that burning stretch of road. The 
sun had come out, and it was as hot as I cared 
to feel it. 

Peter smiled on us, bade us get in, and before 
we knew it we were speeding on, though not too 
fast, passing fashionable limousines in which we 
hoped rode friends or acquaintances who would 
see us on our proud eminence on a wagon marked 
"Bologna, Ham, and Sausages." But no such 
luck. 

Peter had been in the army — ten months in 
France, where he was utilized in the repair shops 
because of his mechanical bent; he would rather 
tinker with machinery than eat a square meal, 
and he was a husky young fellow. And he was 
proud of his job. His employer had the biggest 
and finest trucks in Brooklyn, he told us. They 
never broke down, and when he recognized one 

70 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

coming toward us — they did a thriving business 
on Long Island, evidently — he hailed the driver 
in that free-masonry of fellow employees, and 
remarked: "Ain't that a fine truck, now*? You 
get a better view of it when you ain't on it." 
We assured him it was because of the beauty of 
his wagon that we had hailed him. 

We saw a sailor trudging along ahead of us, 
and Peter, once having been innoculated with the 
germ of hospitality, drew up and asked him to 
join our happy party. Jack was going to Baby- 
lon to get recruits for the navy, he was quick to 
inform us, and he was loud in his love of the 
service. He had been on submarine-chasers all 
during the war, and he and Peter hit it up in 
great shape, doing most of the talking, while Jim 
and I merely listened. It was as though you 
heard two college boys from a university to which 
you had not been privileged to go, talking over 
their secret societies, their professors, their dormi- 
tories. 

But Peter was going only as far as Massa- 
pequa, much to his regret; but he might go on 

71 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

farther later in the day. So we all got out when j 
his turning came. Right behind us thundered a 
huge wagon, crowded with men and boys who 
wore little white caps, and waved flags indus- 
triously; I think it must have been an Elks out- 
ing. I never knew; but they were blowing horns 
and cheering at everybody, and when they saw 
Jack, they yelled frantically to him to get aboard. 
They wanted none of Jim and me; indeed, there 
was hardly room for one more human in that 
packed truck; and the last we saw of him, he was 
being made much of by the Elks, if such they 
were, and I thought I saw him already beginning 
his recruiting among those happy fellows. He 
took off his cap, waving us good-by, while, Peter 
having disappeared in a cloud of dust, we saun- 
tered on alone. 

There were many little roads tempting us out 
of the beaten paths, and several times we took 
one, rejoicing in the proximity to the ocean, where 
the salt air came to our nostrils, and great elms 
and oaks sheltered us from the blazing rays of 
the sun. But we didn't care; we had hooked 

72 










" There were many little roads tempting 
us out of the beaten paths" 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

many a ride, and we knew that almost whenever 
we wanted another we could get it. 

We sat under a tree, in the tall grass for about 
an hour, when again I heard the rumble of a 
truck — Peter's, of course. Who could mistake 
those heavy wheels'? "He's back," I said to Jim. 
And sure enough, it was he, and he was on the 
lookout for us, and drew up at the side of the 
road, just as a taxi-driver might for a passenger 
who would surely pay him and give him a goodly 
tip in the bargain. 

"I 'm going all the way to Bayport," he ex- 
claimed, happier than we could hope over the 
prospect of our company again. We felt su- 
premely flattered. "I '11 take you all the way," 
he added generously. And he did. He could n't 
understand it when we told him we did n't mind 
footing it a bit; but we knew there would be 
plenty of other chances to make haste slowly, so 
joyfully climbed in, feeling that Peter was a real 
friend of ours. 

Off the main road at Bayport, which used to be 
the home of John Mason, the celebrated actor, 

75 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 



1 



there is another French inn, not generally known, 
and boasting no fashionable exterior, but a plain- 
enough building, with a comfortable veranda, 
and kept by a young man and his wife who can 
cook to perfection, who never have a crowd 1 
around them, and who love to have their guests ' 
walk right into the kitchen and select their steak 
or their lobster, and make suggestions for a din- 
ner that is beyond parallel. 

It was for this inn that we were headed, and 
many a time I had arrived at its door by auto- 
mobile. Now, however, we came up in this lum- 
bering truck, and monsieur and madame could 
not believe their eyes when we alighted thus in- 
formally. Nothing would do but that Peter 
should lunch with us. He parked the bologna- 
sausage-ham car at the roadside as carefully as 
though it had been a ten-thousand dollar limou- 
sine, and when he had washed up, he was as 
personable as any one would wish to have him. 
Jim and I were not Beau Brummells, I assure 
you. We all had a meal to delight the gods, 
and then Peter told us he would have to attend 

76 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

to some business and hurry back to Brooklyn. 
We did n't like to see him go, it was still so ter- 
ribly hot; but he was a business man first, and a 
society man afterward, though he did n't put it 
that way himself, and nothing we could offer 
would tempt him to be detained. 

Jim went in bathing at Blue Point, a few miles 
away, while I strolled about Bayport, through 
lanes where the trees look, oddly enough, like 
kneeling camels, and where the sidewalks, as in 
Douglas Manor, are built to go around them, and 
where there is a hush that must be like the quiet 
of heaven, so far are you from the railroad, with 
its iron clamor. 

That night the moon came up like a big pearl 
out of the sea, half hidden by a galleon of clouds, 
and Jim and I went loitering about the half- 
lighted roads ; for we liked the spot so much, and 
monsieur and madame were so gracious, that we 
were determined to stay the night. Dim, cool 
rooms awaited us, with the whitest of linen and 
the best of baths. 

I have often noticed, in motoring at night, 

79 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

what a new aspect the scenery presents, with 
one's search-light forging through the mist and 
darkness. To-night, afoot, it was quite the same, 
and on these off roads, with the world seemingly 
far away, I made up a song that went like 
this: 

Walking in the moonlight down a lonely road, 
How the hedges glisten like scenery of paint! 

Cardboard are the trees, and cardboard each abode, 
A curious illusion when the moon is faint. 

Motors whirl around us on far, crowded ways; 

Pasteboard are the poplars, stark against the sky. 
Is this the world we wandered through the summer days ? 

It 's like a dream, it's moonshine. Reality, good-by ! 

It could n't be real, that ghostly moon up there, 
dimly reflected in a tiny sheet of water by the 
path we trod, that whispering low wind in the 
rushes and in the trees. How wonderful it was 
to be here in this quiet, quaint little town, with 
its lawns of velvet, its solemn, empty church, its 
real dirt roads, and its outspreading, hospitable 
trees, that clung together like a nation in time of 
war, as firmly rooted in the ground as a people 

80 



|l 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

should be rooted in the soil they love and from 
which they sprang I 

I recall a circular summer dining-room on the 
outskirts of Bayport, surrounded with hollyhocks 
and lit with candles, which we could see from the 
road at a turning. It looked like a crown that 
would never crumble, and we could hear the peo- 
ple laughing within its happy circle, and though 
we had no wish to pry upon them, we could n't 
help pausing and listening to their gay chatter. 
Crickets chirped, and down in a damp meadow 
frogs were croaking — delightful sounds of mid- 
July. Somewhere, in another house, a young girl 
began to sing a wistful old song, and the moon 
went spinning behind a sudden cloud; and all at 
once we felt strangely alone out there in the 
scented dark. To think that people lived so ex- 
cellently and wisely all the time; that their days 
went so gladly for them, year in and year out, 
and that this simple experience should be for us 
in the nature of an adventure ! 

We turned back to our inn, healthily tired, and 
a little better, I hope, for our day in the open. 

81 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

I was looking at the map when we returned, 
underneath my lamp, to see just where we would 
go next; and I was struck, as my finger ran over 
the fascinating paper, with the litany of lovely 
and curious names of the villages beyond. They 
kept singing in my head as I went to sleep, and 
finally I had to get up and put them down in 
rhyme. I called it 

A SONG OF THE SOUTH SHORE 

Now we must on to Bellport before the sun is high, 
And laugh along the roadside with bird and butterfly ; 
And then to green Brookhaven, hidden behind the trees, 
Our comrades only casual cars, and rows of hedge, and 

bees. 
It 's up at daybreak we must be, and roam the island 

over, 
Light-hearted in the summer days, bright-hearted through 

the clover. 

We '11 jog along to Speonk and larger towns thereby ; 
When one is just a gipsy, how swift the hours fly ! 
We '11 take the road at sunset and hear the croaking frog. 
And soon we '11 be where water calls, and find ourselves in 

Quogue. 
Bright, dancing bays will wink at us before the journey's 

over — 
Oh, it is good in summer-time to be a careless rover ! 

82 



SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS 

Then on again to Shinnecock and Great Peconic Bay. 
It is n't far to Southampton ; we '11 make it in a day. 
Old, lovely towns on rolling downs that sleep and dream 

and smile ; 
Ah ! some wear gowns of calico, and some go in for style. 
But we, like tramps, knock at their doors, unheeding 

Fashion's bonnet. 
One town is like the freest verse ; one 's like a formal 

sonnet. 

At moonlight we will strike Good Ground, and, when the 

world is still, 
If we 're in luck, we '11 come, like Puck, to quiet Water 

Mill. 
And then to Wainscott we '11 press on with tired foot and 

hand. 
Till Amagansett smiles on us, and then — the Promised 

Land. 
It 's good to need a healing sleep in the rich summer 

weather — 
Two friends who fare along the road, happy and young 

together. 

There 's Rocky Point to-morrow, too, that dreams by 

Fort Pond Bay, 
With stretches of a lonely shore that gleams for miles 

away; 
Too far for pilgrims in gay cars who crave the louder 

things ; 
But you and I fare on to them, far happier than kings. 

83 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

For Montauk Point is at the end, and there the ocean 

thunders, 
And the lonely coast gives up at last its old immortal 

wonders. 



84 



CHAPTER IV 

GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

ID ETWEEN Patchogue and Bellport there is 
■*'^ a road that dips and turns, with here and 
there a bridge to break the monotony of one's walk 
and glimpses of pools and streams to add delight 
to what is a charming province. 

I remember once, when America first got into 
the war, how I motored over this same road with 
a friend from Bellport who was taking her young 
colored butler to the registration office at Patch- 
ogue, where it was necessary for him to report. 
The poor fellow was very nervous, and we kept 
heartening him with gentle words. In his ig- 
norance he was certain he would be sent overseas 
that very afternoon, and the sudden separation 
from a good home and his best girl did not tend 
to make him happy. He kept repeating that he 
"wanted to serve Uncle Sam, anything to help 

85 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Uncle Sam," but he would rather be a potato- 
peeler (as most of us would if we were as honest 
as he) than a fighting soldier and run the risk 
of being gassed by those awful Huns. We as- 
sured him as best we could that if his talent ran 
to peeling potatoes, the powers that be would 
soon find it out, and no doubt he would prove a 
valuable addition to the company kitchen and be 
kept far behind the firing-line. 

It would lend a romantic touch to my story if 
I could truthfully say that Washington went to 
France as a common soldier and died heroically 
in the trenches and never was called upon to peel 
even one potato. But such is not the case. He 
remained all during the conflict on Long Island, 
cooking for, peeling for, and waiting on, the offi- 
cers' mess. And it made my jaunt over the road 
where once I had accompanied him to serve his 
country and his beloved Uncle Sam all the pleas- 
anter to realize that he, too, traveled over it fre- 
quently now, for he is back with his old mistress 
in Bellport. But he does not walk. Not Wash- 
ington! No such labored, plebeian a means of 

86 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

locomotion for him. He owns a little car, and 
I believe his best girl is now Mrs. Washington; 
and they are as happy as I whenever they go 
through this green way, now that a certain form 
of peace has come back to our land. 

The morning we left Bayport, or, rather, the 
morning I got back to it after a few days' neces- 
sary absence in town, dawned beautifully bright. 
There were jewels on the green, opulent hedges. 
It was still late July, and the country wore that 
look of richness that comes at this gorgeous sea- 
son. There is a splendid hour of summer when 
nature is at flood-tide, when the bins of the 
world seem to be overflowing with sweetness and 
greenness; a lavish moment that makes the heart 
ache, the earth is so crowded with peace and de- 
light. You gasp in the presence of such per- 
fection; for every leaf seems to hold out a hand 
to you as you pass under arching trees, and every 
pool of water seems literally to pause and whis- 
per that this glory will not last. "Drink it in 
now, while you can," it softly says. "August 
will be upon us before you know it; and then the 

87 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

tide will turn, a different kind of beauty will be 
in the bright mornings, another wonder will float 
over this water in the afternoons. The evenings 
will grow cooler. A change will take place. So 
brood over this mystery of full summer now; 
for it passes even while you are contemplating 
it." 

And it is true. The summer must hun;y on; 
the splendor must fade, to make way for the 
golden tapestries that autumn soon, too soon, will 
hang upon the hills. 

There were little dips and side trails all around 
us, and having, as always, no thought of time, we 
often investigated the roads that "led to God 
knows where," finding delight in a sort of school- 
boy exploration, surprising a cow calmly grazing 
in some ofF field, or causing a family of hogs 
to grunt and attempt a clumsy scampering. Off 
the main road, I could n't help jotting down this 
song on this particularly bright morning in praise 
of tramping: 

Through many a dale and hollow, 
Round many a curving trail, 

88 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

We dipped, as dips a swallow, 
And cared if none might follow, 
Nor feared our feet might fail. 

Through sunlit, warm morasses. 

Through many a summer day, 
With glimpses of green grasses 
And quaint, mysterious passes. 

We took our care-free way. 

By many a farm and meadow 

And many a lovely down. 
We tramped, in sun and shadow, 
Wherever Fancy led. Oh, 

Forgotten was the town ! 

At every road's new turning, 

Some new delight we spied. 
The fields with joy were burning, 
And we, fresh scenes discerning, 

Kept up our glorious stride. 

What mattered love's mismatings! 

What mattered life's hard load 
Or Bradstreet's silly ratings. 
For we had happy datings 

With God along the road! 

I had a new companion with me this time, a 
young fellow named Gordon. He had been in 

89 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

the war, and he said that walking quietly around 
Long Island appealed to him after the noise and 
confusion of the trenches. 

We got on to Bellport, that village which con- 
tains charming little houses, some of which rest 
neatly on the ground, as though they had no 
cellars, and give the impression of well-con- 
structed scenery in a light opera. There are gates 
that click delightfully, old-fashioned flower gar- 
dens, paths bordered with phlox and hollyhocks. 
A blue bay shines in the sun, so radiant that it 
has been painted by many artists, notably Wil- 
liam J. Glackens, who used to live here. Indeed, 
many artists have loved this quaint little village. 
James and May Wilson Preston still make their 
summer home within its quiet confines, and they, 
like every one else, go out on the golf-links in the 
afternoon, where there are glimpses of the water 
all along the course. 

Many of these towns, however, have lost dur- 
ing the last few years that simplicity which was 
once one of their most cherished possessions. 
Evening clothes were never tolerated; it was al- 

90 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

ways white flannels and the most inexpensive 
frocks at every dinner party or dance. But the 
rich creep in everywhere, lured by the easy-going 
spirit they would give anything to emulate; and 
then the inevitable tragedy occurs. They kill 
the very thing they love the most, and frocks and 
frills, laces and jewels, conventional costumes, 
are put on in the golden heart of summer, and the 
old simplicity goes as new complications arrive. 
A barn dance becomes a stately festival in an 
over-decorated club-house, and the flivver is su- 
perseded by yellow cars with magnificent names, 
and Mrs. So-and-So will not bow to Mrs. Some- 
body Else, and it 's good-by to real fun and de- 
mocracy, and "Let 's go down to the Southampton 
beach" instead of across the quiet, dreaming little 
bay in a rocking tub of a boat for a dip in the 
surf. 

It 's too bad, but in America we never seem 
able to keep, for three or four consecutive years 
even, the same atmosphere we were so bent on 
creating. We rent a lovely cottage, invite our 
friends into it, and then immediately run away 

91 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

from it. For we have heard that the next town 
down the road is smarter or more thrilling, and 
if the stock market has done well by us, we must 
get a bigger house during June, July, and Au- 
gust, and flutter a bit more, soar just a little 
higher. 

There were some village boys playing ball in 
a field beyond Bellport, and it happened to be a 
quiet morning, and there seemed to be no one 
with the leisure to watch their game. So we, 
remembering Whitman's line, "If there are to be 
great poets, we must have great audiences, too," 
constituted ourselves the audience; and I don't 
know that I have ever enjoyed a game more. 
There were some fine players on that little team, 
and as home run after home run was made, we 
noticed a lad looking wistfully on, with one arm 
gone — his right arm, too. I whispered to Gor- 
don, "Too bad, isn't it? No doubt he used to 
play, and perhaps the war has robbed him of that 
pleasure now." Scarcely were the words out of 
my mouth when he took his place at the bat, no 
one except ourselves seeming the least surprised 

92 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

that he should do so. He made two hits, to my 
utter amazement. But why should n't he, after 
all, have done himself and the home team proud*? 
A boy who could be undefeated in the face of 
such an accident as must have been his surely 
would not have been defeated at base-ball. We 
cheered him to the echo, making up in enthusiasm 
what we lacked in numbers. 

It is only a short walk from Bellport to Brook- 
haven; three or four miles at the most, I should 
say. You turn to the right when a wooden 
church comes into view, and here you strike real 
country roads, and are mu'ch more apt to encoun- 
ter carts and wagons than hurrying motors. For 
Brookhaven is just what its name implies, a quiet 
little village where one would have time for con- 
templation, where there is n't the slightest pre- 
tense or desire for it ; a tiny side room, as it were ; 
a pleasant place to take a nap, to write a letter, 
or to read a book. James L. Ford and his sister, 
who always have seemed to me like Charles and 
Mary Lamb, pass their summers here in a cottage 
typical of what a literary man's cottage should 

93 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

be; and it is here in this silent spot that some of 
Mr. Ford's wittiest reviews have been written 
and some of his cleverest bon mots uttered, cham- 
pagne exploding and delighting the guests at quiet 
country dinner parties. Several artists also find 
the summer months to their liking here, and you 
can't wonder at their choice. If one should not 
wish to keep house, there is a homelike inn where 
the best of food is to be obtained, and the place 
is near enough to New York to make commuting 
possible, even though not desirable. There is a 
bit of bay to sail or row upon, fishing, and the 
kind of human society a thinking man longs for. 
Round about Brookhaven the grass grows high, 
like a boy in the back country whose hair is al- 
lowed to get shaggy because there is no barber 
handy. And there are delicate lattice fences and 
trellises painted a rich blue, and all the old- 
fashioned flowers in the world, seemingly, peep 
over them and smile at you and flirt with you as 
you go down the road. This is the sort of village 
I dote upon, informal, gentle as a nun, but ready 



94 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

for a party any time the right folk come to pay 
it a visit. 

Between Brookhaven and Mastic and the 
Moriches there are any number of cool back roads, 
and people on farms here are primitive and plain, 
and would exult, if they were articulate, I have 
no doubt, in their cold sobriety and reserve. 
Through places like these you can walk for hours, 
and apparently it is a deserted district. There 
are plenty of houses, but no one seems to be in 
them. The shutters will be drawn in the "par- 
lor," which is kept for the company that never 
comes, and one can almost see those dim and 
shadowy, unaired rooms, with shells and plush 
family albums, heavy lambrequins, and faded 
lace curtains, carpets with big pink roses for a 
central design, and a filigreed wallpaper that 
would make the heart ache, against which crude 
family portraits rest in austere rows. You are 
aware, as you pass, that even though no one is 
visible, there are eyes watching you, and people 
with little else to do are wondering who you are 



97 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

and where you are going. It rained softly the 
afternoon we got off the beaten road, and Gor- 
don and I had this sense of being stared at to 
such a degree that we got into a foolish fit of 
laughter. We were so sure of not being alone 
on a road that, when one looked about you, was 
so decidedly empty. 

"I wonder what they see in us," Gordon said. 

"I wonder, too," I answered. "It 's so differ- 
ent in New York. There no one pays the slight- 
est attention to anybody else. But here — well, 
I feel as if we were in a mystery play, and I 
really don't like it, do you?" 

"No. And, gosh I look at that big dog com- 
ing toward us ! He looks fiendish ; and it 's rain- 
ing hard, and we '11 be soaked through." 

We got under an oak-tree — it was just a 
shower, not a storm — and escaped the sniffling, 
barking canine, much, I think, to his disgust. 
And then, wet though I was, I wrote this on a 
scrap of paper and handed it over to Gordon : 

I walk along the city streets, 
And no one seems to care. 

98 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

The people merely think I 'm out 

To get a breath of air; 
In drenching rain I cross the road 

With manner debonair. 

But if I walk on country roads 
When days are warm and damp. 

The folk peep from their windows like 
Old tipsy Sairey Gamp, 

And whisper in their farm-houses : 
"Just look ! There goes a tramp !" 

The dogs come out and snap at me ; 

They have n't any pity : 
And children call me cruel names ; 

I 've never thought them witty. 
Oh, there are moments when I crave 

The hard, unnoting city ! 

"But you don't, and you know it," was Gor- 
don's only comment on what I thought were 
purely satirical lines. "What liars you verse- 
writers are! Come on; the shower's over." 

And we trudged on. 

Through the leafy greenness, all the lovelier 
because of the pleasant burst of rain, we came 
to a broken-down gate that apparently led to 
Moriches Bay, — we were not far from the wa- 

99 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

ter's-edge, we knew, — and in crudely formed black 
letters above it was this legend on a piece of 
board : 

Lady Upholsterers 

OF 

Long Island 
Picnic 

What a forlorn day for an outing I we said to 
ourselves. And yet here were we taking one, 
and enjoying it, though the afternoon was murky 
and sticky. But what could the "^lady uphol- 
sterers" look like, not so much singly, but in a 
group? And how many of them were there, and 
how had they happened to band together for this 
summer holiday? Was it an annual affair, and 
were they young or old or middle-aged? Did 
they have husbands to support them, or were 
they the wage-earners of their families? They 
fascinated us until we saw eight of the most 
weary and bedraggled-looking females imaginable 
emerging from the woods near by, burdened with 
baskets and shawls, pails and jars, and two 

100 



*l 



/// 




" Our hearts ached for them ' 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

screaming children. As Goldberg says, "And all 
this comes under the head of pleasure!" What 
a day they must have had, poor dears, after weeks, 
nay, months, of heavy upholstery work, pound- 
ing in tacks and stretching unyielding cloth over 
numerous Long Island sofas I Our hearts ached 
for them, for no doubt, like all picnickers, they 
had planned this outing far ahead, and of course 
the sky had to empty out buckets of water upon 
them and the morning arrive full of oppressive 
heat. They took their sodden way down the 
lane ahead of us, and after a few hours of sit- 
ting on the green grass, life was to mean for them 
again only a long row of chairs to be forever 
mended, forever repaired. 

We decided that, although there was a certain 
kind of doubtful privacy on these back roads, 
they were depressing to-day, and we would work 
our way back to the main thoroughfare, and get 
to Moriches by nightfall. So we turned to the 
left, encountering a pleasant-spoken farmer who 
insisted on our riding with him, and who thought 
us quite mad to be on a walking tour when the 

103 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

thermometer registered eighty-five degrees in the |' 
shade. "You don't have to walk'?" he said. 
Even though we told him we liked going afoot, 
he was skeptical still, and I have the notion that 
he was suspicious, before he left us, of such a 
pair, and rather regretted the kindness of a lift. 
He was going to a railway station, so he dropped 
us at the main road, and we fared on to the next 
town for our evening meal. 

But on the way numerous cars passed us. 
Finally — I do not recall just why — I was at- 
tracted by a flivver coming in our direction which 
seemed to be making an almost human noise. A 
sort of wheezing sound came out of it as it tried 
its best to get up a slight hill. There was a little 
bridge between us, and when we were midway 
upon it, the car came to a complete standstill. I 
saw that a young colored man and woman were 
the occupants, and the face of the boy looked 
familiar. He was so busy trying to discover 
what ailed his machine that he had n't yet cast 
a glance in our direction. 

104 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

Suddenly he looked up as we deliberately 
stepped over to his side. 

"Lord o' mercy, if it ain't Mister Townel" he 
said, and rose and shook hands with me, excitedly. 

It was Washington, and introductions made it 
plain that there was indeed a bride, and complete 
happiness now that the ugly war was over and 
done. 

'T can fix dis here car in no time," Washing- 
ton announced, after we had recalled our last 
ride together on this same road, much nearer New 
York. He wanted to take us on to the next vil- 
lage, — he could n't understand any more than 
the farmer why we should be footing it on such 
a day, — and it was all I could do to make him 
understand that our preference was genuine. 
But he, too, had a will of his own; and somehow 
— maybe it was the sticky heat — Gordon and I 
found ourselves in the rear seat ten minutes later, 
and Washington had turned about and was con- 
ducting us, with apparent pride, to Eastport. It 
was no trouble at all, no more than peeling pota- 

105 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

toes. His only fear was that the car would mis- 
behave again, and I was sure he and Mrs. Wash- 
ington could never have survived such a catas- 
trophe. 

Wind-mills begin to loom up around the 
Moriches and Eastport, dozens of them, that 
make you think yourself in a foreign land; and 
the salt air from the sea comes to your nostrils 
as you jog along. There is a freedom, a wild- 
ness, a beauty, about this part of the island un- 
known to other spots of the South Shore. And 
then, to have a companion who has never been 
this far, and who has no idea of what a gorgeous 
surprise is in store for him when the foot of 
Shinnecock Hills is reached, adds a zest to the 
journey. 

The towns are much alike, however. Speonk 
lives up to its ugly name, and though we saw 
goats and calves in a few front yards here, thus 
going the chickens one better, occasionally we 
would glimpse a lovely little cottage with an old- 
fashioned garden and a lovely old lady among 
her flowers. Quogue, which is semi-fashionable 

106 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

and sprinkles out like a broken jewel, could lure 
one from the main road any day, at any season; 
for it has a wonderful beach, and the ocean froths 
splendidly and angrily all along the coast. Hid- 
den away, tucked in corners, are villages like Rem- 
senburg in this region, just a handful of houses 
sparkling in the sun, where people who are wise 
enough to like peace rather than stupid fashion 
foregather and really enjoy a summer as it was 
certainly meant to be enjoyed. And every vil- 
lage, no matter how small, has its roll of honor 
in the public square, a record of the boys who 
died in France, their names inscribed forever on 
a tablet; and you can hardly believe that even 
from these tiny places soldiers went forth on a 
certain day. 

Outside Westhampton we came upon a quaint 
castle, built of cement, around which a staircase 
wandered, like a vine. A little tower stood near 
it. The extensive lawns in front of these curious 
buildings, which looked as if they had been trans- 
ported from the Rhine Valley, were thick with 
startling statuary, and Gordon and I, fresh from 

107 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

a good sleep at Eastport, a real country town 
with a real flavor, and knowing we could easily f 
reach Canoe Place Inn by noon on such a cool 
morning, stopped to view the castle. We found 
the owner, a delightful man in middle life, with 
the blue eyes of a child, was a potter. Not only 
that, but a painter, an inventor, a dreamer, an 
architect, and a sculptor as well. His vases, 
which he colored through a secret process, were 
exquisite, and he showed us the furnaces where 
he heated his clay in the tower, and a rowboat 
on the lake behind the castle, composed of ce- 
ment and wire, which he was mighty proud of, 
as he had made it with his own hands. A pic- 
turesque, charming gentleman, mowing the grass 
when we wandered in, apparently at peace with 
all the world, and glad of any casual visitor who 
evinced an interest in his quaint place with its 
busy enterprises. 

We made Good Ground in three hours of lei- 
surely going, and then the Shinnecock Canal, 
where I wanted to watch Gordon's face. 

For it is here that Nature makes a sudden 
108 



GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK 

and supreme gesture, as if to say: "You thought 
me rather stupid and commonplace up till now, 
did n't you? But just see what I can do I" And 
she lifts her hand, and presses it on the earth, 
and here, on prosaic Long Island, puts a bit of 
Scotland I It is a magical change, and for a mo- 
ment you think you are living in a dream or a 
fairy-tale. Greener grass I have seldom seen; 
and then the scrub bay-trees, like gorse, blueberry- 
bushes, and goldenrod! A wonderland opens 
before you for several miles, with clean, curving 
roads running through it like devious highways 
of the king. Wind-mills extend their arms, and 
architects have wisely placed here only the type 
of dwelling that sinks naturally into the land- 
scape. Shinnecock Bay is as blue as the Medi- 
terranean, and on a point to your right a graceful, 
white lighthouse stands. I could look forever 
upon this scene. From an airplane the moors 
must look like a Persian rug, spread across the 
island through some miracle, fit for a beautiful 
queen to walk upon. There is only one flaw — 
the practical telegraph poles should be removed, 

109 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

or at least hidden in some way. We had camou- 
flage in the war; why not in time of peace? 

"By Jove I it 's great I" Gordon said, as I knew 
he would. "Why did n't you tell me we were 
coming to this'?" 

"Because I wanted it to take your breath away, 
as it has," I answered. And then we fell silent; 
for if there is one thing I can't endure, it is the 
kind of friend who raves forever over a sunset 
or the starry expanse of heaven and gives you 
no time to think of the wonder itself. 

We were to lunch with friends at Shinnecock, 
another surprise I had for Gordon, who thought 
we would hurry through this paradise, and make 
a tramp-like entrance into thrillingly smart 
Southampton. He was happy over the prospect 
of several hours in such a spot, as well he might 
be. I kept from him the fact that I even hoped 
to be asked to sleep on the moors. "You mean 
the Ostermoors," said my witty young compan- 
ion; and I have not forgiven him yet, though in 
justification he keeps reminding me what an in- 
veterate punster Charles Lamb was said to be. 

iio 



CHAPTER V 

FROM SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT 

NOT very many New-Yorkers — or Long-Is- 
landers, for that matter — realize that at 
Shinnecock Hills, within a stone's-throw of fash- 
ionable Southampton, there is a small Indian res- 
ervation, primitive Americans elbowing, as it 
were, with an overcivilized hodgepodge, lending 
added color to the crazy-quilt of a hectic society. 
A contact like this is almost unbelievable; yet 
there it is, and I wonder what the chiefs and 
squaws would think of the bathing-beach at 
Southampton if they took the pains to view it, as 
we did, on a certain Sunday morning. Here was 
the dernier cri in feminine costumes, and church 
was just out. The chapel is conveniently and 
thoughtfully placed almost next to the bathing- 
pavilion, in order, I suppose, that the holy inno- 
cents may emerge from one sort of spiritual bath 

111 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

and step into quite another. A fearless clergy- 
man, the day we were there, had given the idle 
rich a severe lecture, under which many of them 
sat in mute unconcern, and then filed out to the 
glowing sands of pleasure, as though the wither- 
ing words they had just listened to had never been 
uttered. Oh, wasted wrath and worse than 
wasted advice ! Yellow umbrellas and pink-and- 
green and salmon bathing-suits seemed of far 
more importance than ecclesiastical visions of a 
solemn day of judgment, and the so-called fash- 
ionable world laughed and gossiped and frisked 
about as of old, before any world war rocked this 
troubled earth or any pious gentleman dared to 
speak his mind. 

There are many beautiful gardens in Southamp- 
ton, but I saw only two of them, each lovely in a 
different way. One was that of Mr. H. H. Rog- 
ers, a formal Italian thing of glory, with the 
sea singing almost up to its very borders, and 
with nothing between it and Spain but this same 
plunging, foaming ocean. For the narrow strip 
of land that begins at Fire Island ends at Shinne- 

112 



SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT 

cock Hills, and Southampton triumphantly 
touches the sea itself and listens to her song all 
day and night. The other was the less formal 
garden of Mr. James Breese, back in the town 
proper, a riot of luxurious beauty, with vistas 
east and west, north and south, as in Mr. Rogers's 
garden, and statues and busts and fountains, and 
a fragrance forever arising out of the clean, opu- 
lent earth. Down such garden walks one would 
love to loiter through the slow summer after- 
noons, or see the moon spill its silver on quiet 
nights. The peace of gardens! The assuaging 
comfort they bring with the noisy world on the 
other side of their high walls, over which only the 
green vines clamber and peep I 

After the colorful and stiff parade of Southamp- 
ton, it was soothing to get to quiet Water Mill, 
only a few miles away, where the dunes rise high, 
and where Gordon and I, thanks to a lavish 
hostess, were given a picnic on the beach on a 
certain evening when the stars were blazing the 
sky and the moon was a fragment of pearl against 
deep-blue velvet. If you ever pass through Wa- 

115 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

ter Mill, be sure that you turn sharply to- the 
right when you come to a house set at the side of 
a little inlet, and make for the shore about a 
mile beyond. The sand has formed mighty 
hillocks here, and far as the eye can see there is 
a noble coast-line, with spray continually veiling 
the shore as the first soft snow envelops the world 
on a December day. A few houses bravely face 
the thundering sea, and one or two were recently 
washed away, I was told, in a great storm. 

The day after our picnic we went by motor to 
Easthampton, that lovely old town with one of 
the finest main streets in America, shadowed by 
elms, chestnuts, and maples. In the center of it, 
beyond the great flagstaff, is a quiet little ceme- 
tery rolling down to a stream, whereon a swan 
or two drifts and dreams the hours away, like 
those sleeping under the hill. It was here that 
"Home, Sweet Home" was written, and the house 
where Paine penned his immortal words is still 
standing, a shingled cottage with old doors and 
windows and cupboards, now made into a little 
musuem. John Drew, Augustus Thomas, and 

116 



SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT 

Victor Harris are among those who make their 
summer homes in Easthampton, and there is a 
colony of as interesting folk as one could wish 
to meet. By no means so smart as Southampton, 
this town has a charm distinctly its own, a rich 
tone and color like some old volume. And it is 
an old village, for it was settled in 1649. I know 
of no better place to wander about. There are 
byways in every direction, and there is always 
that broad, heavenly, and shadowy main street 
to come back to. No wonder Paine could write 
his deathless poem in such a spot! 

Amagansett, another old village, as fragrant 
as fresh hay, lies just beyond, drowsing the long 
summer hours away, dozing peacefully through 
lazy afternoons. 

And then you reach a poorer hamlet, with the 
delightful name of Promised Land. We saw a 
tiny cottage here by the edge of the road that 
spelt serenity, if ever a house did. It was cov- 
ered with thick vines, and its three stone chim- 
neys rose like protecting bastions. The clipped 
lawn told of order and harmony and a sense of 

117 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

decent pride, and I imagined charming old ladies 
living here on a patrimony, content with life, 
happy in a hamlet with such a heavenly name. 
What a place for the sunset days of one's allotted 
span I 

Until you reach Montauk, this is the last clus- 
ter of houses before the point is finally won. 
Many people had discouraged us from going be- 
yond Easthampton, saying the roads were impos- 
sible, if not utterly impassable. But do not be 
deceived. The cinder-path that begins almost as 
soon as you are out of Promised Land, and soon 
develops into a good dirt road, is fine and hard, 
equally good for foot-farers or motorists. True, 
it is narrow, and if you are in a car, you will 
have to watch out for other travelers and turn at 
the right spot, as trolleys must delay at given 
sections when there is only a single track. Be- 
yond this there will be no difficulty, and soon 
you will find yourself entering a locality as bleak 
as that country described in "Wuthering 
Heights." The moon must look like this. 
Gaunt ribs of sand rise on the ocean side, and 

118 



SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT 

here and there is a lonely coast-guard hut. It is 
as forlorn as the devastated regions of France, 
with formations in the dunes like shell-craters. 
Only the tanks are missing, and the stark lines of 
telegraph poles make you think of the crosses in 
Flanders Fields, row on endless row. 

There is waving salt grass, and once in a while 
a pink marshmallow rose will lift its pathetic face 
in the sun. The sand-dunes take on a purplish 
tint, and there are purple shadows like miniature 
caves, with the sea forever chanting and beating 
its tireless hands upon the lonesome shore. Scrub- 
pines appear, and then a little forest of scrub- 
oaks, until you imagine you are in Italy. A 
lonely railroad-track follows you on the left; and 
that, with a wireless station farther on, are the 
only reminders of civilization. You are sud- 
denly and gloriously out of touch with the world; 
and then you realize that, through the miracle of 
a modern invention, you can never quite get 
away from the vast city you have left so far 
behind you. 

The island grows very thin here, and with the 
121 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

loud ocean on your right, you also have glimpses 
of Napeague Bay, Fort Pond, and Great Pond 
on your left. It is a constantly and curiously 
changing scene through which you wander. One 
moment you exclaim, "Why, this is Scotland I" 
and the next there will come a definite dip in the 
land, and you will discover farmers tilling the 
soil, and think you are in Connecticut. It is as- 
tonishing that so restricted a territory can con- 
tain so many shifting scenes. 

And now the lighthouse, which has stood on 
the point one hundred and twenty-three years, 
gazing with its great eye from the edge of the 
world out to the limitless ocean. The present 
keeper has been there nine years, and his assistant 
told us that last winter, in a heavy storm, they 
were virtually cut off from the world for three 
months, and he and the keeper's young daughter 
trudged through drifts of snow to Promised Land, 
nine miles away, for groceries and other supplies, 
and had, as one can imagine, a hard time of it. 
This young assistant, Mr. Kierstead, had been 
slightly shell-shocked in the war, and he found 

122 



—aVS'^S^i 







:»*» 



" With its great eye to the limitless ocean ' 



SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT 

the quiet life at the point soothing to his nerves. 

"But isn't it lonely for you all'?" was the in- 
evitable question, asked of every lighthouse- 
keeper. 

"Oh, maybe, a bit; but we love it. And there 
are plenty of visitors in summer. In winter we 
can read, and we have a happy time of it." 

The quarters where these two families live are 
as neat as wax, and I can imagine how the fresh 
salt air helps one's appetite. We grew hungry, 
seeing a delicious plate of hot cakes on the table. 

During the Spanish-American War certain of 
our troops were camped at Montauk Point, and 
the spot hummed with soldiers and Sunday vis- 
itors. Now it has almost forgotten those busy 
days, and gone definitely back to its natural calm 
and peace. 

Gordon and I were motored back to Southamp- 
ton, and there we took a train to town. This was 
always an anticlimax, for no matter how tired 
one might be, after footing it here and there, or 
even after motoring, one had no desire, particu- 
larly after a period of exultant freedom, to be- 

125 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

come part of a common package — a bean, as it 
were, joggling against other beans in a stuffy 
smoker or even in a parlor-car. 

Of course the ideal way to return would be 
not in a motor, but in an airplane — exultant free- 
dom magnified a hundredfold, since there is no 
sensation of aloneness and aloofness to compare 
with a journey through the air. To get back 
thus romantically and ecstatically to the worka- 
day world would be the essence of delight. But 
one cannot ask, and expect to receive, every known 
form of joy on this prosaic earth; and so any 
companion I ever had, free from such foolish 
wishes as mine, was always content to purchase 
a conventional ticket and get back to New York 
in a humdrum way. 



126 







m 



/i¥ 



n 








CHAPTER VI 

America's mad playground, coney island 

IN every full-grown man, if he be of the right 
stuff, there is a human desire to play which, 
indulged in at the proper intervals, gives us poor 
humans that balance so necessary if we would 
keep our sanity. Moreover, it keeps us young 
and makes us better. 

I confess that about once each summer I crave 
Coney Island, as a child craves candy or a toy 
balloon. Something steals over me, something 
whispers in my ear, "This is the very night for 
a ride to that mad, glad beach, with thousands 
of other fools. Come, play with me, and be 
gloriously young again !" 

I cannot resist the siren, or whoever it is that 
thus robs me of what trifling dignity I may have. 
When the word comes, when the impulse is upon 

129 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND | 

me, I simply obey ; and never yet have I regretted 
any wild spree at Coney Island. ' 

There are plenty of motors to take one there 
if it is too tedious to go by train or boat. Thej 
are all over New York, on various corners oi 
Broadway; and the magnetic call of the "barker' 
who lures folk into his whirling chariot is louc 
along that sparkling thoroughfare on midsummer 
evenings. All you have to do is pay your dollar, 
or whatever the rate is now, and jump aboard. 

You are whirled through the vast city in the 
twinkling of an eye, and over into Brooklyn; 
and soon you find yourself tumbling along the 
motor parkway where, as a boy, I used to ride a 
wheel and miraculously escape every truck that 
came along, and never dreamed of danger. In 
and out of hurrying traffic we all used to speed; 
and then one day they built a side path for the 
cyclists alone. Then there were so many of us — 
we seemed to multiply like rabbits in those 
halcyon days — that they built a path on the other 
side, so that there was one-way traveling only. 
This, I recall that we all thought, robbed the 

130 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

sport of some of its zest. The element of danger 
had been entirely eliminated. It was as though 
you took the jam off our bread. 

Youth, youth, that fears nothing! How won- 
derful you are I Though I used to go at a terrific 
rate on my bicycle, and fear no man, to-day I 
confess that even behind the best chauffeur, I 
have a little tremor of the heart. If I drove the 
machine myself, maybe I would not be so fool- 
ishly afraid — (yet is it being foolishly afraid'?) ; 
for they tell me that sooner or later every driver 
will get the speed mania, and take chances on the 
most crowded thoroughfare or along the shining, 
empty road, though it turn and twist every few 
rods. 

Everybody seems to be going to, or coming 
from. Coney Island on, say, a July or August 
evening. Everyone is, or has been, making a 
night of it. And soon you see in the dim dis- 
tance, like so many fallen stars, the lights of the 
playground, shining like diamonds on the beach. 
Or is it a cascade of wonder tossed up on the shore 
by opulent mermaids — necklaces that they have 

131 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

wearied of, golden bracelets that have tired them,] 
glowing gems that they once wore in their hair, 
and now throw nonchalantly on the coast for the 
delight of us poor mortals'? At any rate, there 
they are — those gleaming miles of phosphores- 
cence, part of the wonderful city of magic in the 
midst of which you will soon be playing like a 
child of ten. 

Cars, cars everywhere, with men calling to you 
that their little foot of earth is the best place to 
park your machine — if you are running your own. 
If you are in one of those public conveyances that 
accept anybody with the money for a passenger, 
you feel that you are just that much more one of 
the vast multitude that is scrambling for an en- 
trance to this place of simple pleasure; and you 
are glad, as I always am, that you have not the 
responsibility of a motor to add to the troubles 
of this world. 

There is a certain feeling of opulence in pur- 
chasing one long ticket at a window which will 
admit you, as it is variously punched or torn, to 
every show inside; and this understanding of the 

132 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

weakness of human nature is only one more mani- 
festation of the success of Coney Island. Who- 
ever conceived the idea of inviting patrons to buy 
just one ticket for a round sum, is as knowing as 
the pundits of old ; and my hat is off to his massive 
brain. I wish I had the wit thus to read the 
heart of my fellow man. To give up a dollar, 
let us say, knowing that you will be taken care 
of for the rest of the evening; that all the side- 
shows will be an open book to you, without the 
annoyance of bothering further with coupons — 
that seems to me the perfection of Yankee fore- 
sight, the best device of a system that has been 
studied minutely to discover how to ease the bur- 
dens of the tired public. 

It was the late Frederick Thompson and his 
partner, Dundy, who invented Luna Park — two 
young men who ran the Hippodrome when it was 
first opened, and who had a genius for knowing 
what people wanted in the way of entertainment. 
Luna Park is but a slice of Coney Island; but 
within its confines may be found almost any 
known form of innocent amusement. RoUer- 

135 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

coasters, merry-go-rounds, swings, shooting-galler-! 
ies, mystic Moorish mazes, elephants, camels, hotj 
dogs — by which is meant bologna sausages — pea-* 
nuts, popcorn, dance-floors, jazz— all these, and 
many another bit of life's make-believe may be 
had and enjoyed if one has provided himself with 
a long, long ticket, or will take the trouble to 
dig down into his pocket for the necessary nickel 
or dime. 

I have seen men and women of most serious 
mien enter Luna Park, determined, judging by 
their countenances, not to lose their dignity; yet 
they have emerged from some indulgence in the 
spirit of carnival, having been wise enough, as 
Stevenson put it, to make fools of themselves. 
They have had their photographs taken in some 
grotesque attitude — on a camel, perhaps — and 
waited, childlike, while the film was finished, so 
that they could take it home as a souvenir of a 
happy evening; and doubtless they have pasted it 
in a scrapbook which they will keep forever, in- 
scribed with the date of their dissipation, their 
fall from grace, and hand it down to their chil- 

136 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

dren as a sign that grown-ups can, once in a 
while, lose their solemnity and be all the more 
human for it. 

Coney Island is one vast slot machine; and if 
there is a word that describes it better than an- 
other, it is movement. Everything shakes, or 
glides, or shimmies, or jumps, or tumbles, or 
twists — nothing ever stands still. That would 
be unthinkable. The American people love noise 
and confusion, and the more of it they get the 
better they like it. Witness the success of our 
cabarets. Coney Island might stand as a symbol 
of our national consciousness. Its riot and con- 
stant gestures are the expression of what the mul- 
titude like best. It is sublimated madness; but 
it is typical of our easy forgetting, our ability to 
throw the serious business of life to the winds in 
the twinkling of an eye, when it is necessary. 
I have never seen any ill-humor at Coney Island, 
even in the hectic days before prohibition. The 
crowds go there, determined to have a good time. 
They do not intend to be cheated of their happi- 
ness. An easy manner pervades them all, a slap 

137 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

on the back by a total stranger is never resented, 
and everyone smiles, everyone laughs. It is the 
thing to do. As Pollyanna was the "glad" book, | 
so Coney Island is the "glad" place. Your wor- 
ries will not be tolerated there. 

Why people should pay money to be made fools 
of is one of the eternal mysteries. There is a 
certain spot in one park where a lady's skirts 
are literally blown over her head the instant she 
passes a gate — having paid ten cents for the 
privilege. A gust of wind which she knows not 
of sends her gown upward; and this would be 
distressing enough in itself, but a greater horror 
confronts her. She hastily adjusts her skirt, and 
then hears gales of laughter, looks ahead of her 
in the direction of the sound, and sees row after 
row of people who have already passed through 
the ordeal, and are sitting there waiting for the 
next victim. Having been made ludicrous them- 
selves — having had their straw hats blown off, 
if they are men — they love nothing better than 
to watch your confusion. And there they are, 
cruelly awaiting you. But you are not angry. 

138 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

You can't be. That would be fatal, and entirely 
out of the spirit of the place. You smile a sick- 
ish smile, plunge forward as best you may and 
join the others safely on the other side. You 
are now like the lad who has just been initiated. 
How eagerly you pounce upon the next poor fool, 
to give him a taste of the anguish you have exoe- 
rienced ! 

Suddenly, having had your fill of this laughter, 
you see a mass of smooth boards close by — a shin- 
ing hill, almost perpendicular, down which dozens 
of men and women are tumbling — perpetual mo- 
tion again; yes, and perpetual emotion. They 
land, after a swift fall, in a dry whirlpool of 
rings, which revolve rapidly in every direction. 
But one cannot escape these rings. They are 
contiguous, and they never cease whirling. If 
you are fortunate enough to leave one, and think 
yourself free at last, you find yourself imme- 
diately upon another; and thus the game goes 
merrily on until you are pushed by the latest 
comer out into a sort of trench, looking and feel- 
ing idiotic and dizzy, and again facing a group 

141 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

of people who have been through the agony and 
are now convulsed with mirth at your distress. 

And you paid to have this laughter greet you I 
You went into it with your eyes open, and there- 
fore you have no one to blame but yourself. 
Such is the good-nature of Americans, that I saw 
one young fellow, who had not dreamed of the 
whirling wheels when he took his first tumble, 
immediately take out his pocket comb and a tiny 
mirror and pretend to make a hurried toilet as 
he turned and twisted on his uncomfortable seat. 
That made the crowd watching him his everlast- 
ing slave, and he came out triumphant. He had 
seen that the joke was on himself, and he had the 
wit to make a monkey of himself as he was tossed 
about. 

Undismayed, you seek the next bit of fun. 
You wouldn't stop now for the world. For you 
have been innoculated with the germ of the spirit 
of carnival, and there is no hope for you. The 
Barrel of Love — yes, of course you'll try that! 

So you allow yourself — having given up an- 
other coupon — to be strapped within a barrel, 

142 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

while someone else is bound on the opposite side, 
facing you, two miserable, conoave figures. Then 
both are twirled and twisted and rolled and 
heaved and dumped this way and that — again, 
of course, to the accompaniment of laughter on 
the other side of the ropes which separate you from 
the happy mob. You almost experience sea- 
sickness. But what of that^ This is a night of 
complete abandon, and you must not be ill now; 
for the scenic railway, the merry-go-round, the 
dark tunnel and a dozen other haunts of laughter 
yet await your coming. But the Barrel of Love 
does seem a bit too much for anyone. Looping 
the Loop is easier. 

I once saw a mother take her infant child in 
the latter. Maybe she believed in preparedness, 
and thus early determined that her offspring 
should become accustomed to astounding pleas- 
ures. He would grow up to be a Coney Island 
fiend, undoubtedly. At any rate, there the child 
was, in its mother's arms, little knowing the dip 
and whirl that awaited it. Criminal*? Perhaps. 
But part again of Coney Island's marvelous and 

143 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

non-understandable psychology. For the relief 
of the reader, I would like to say that I stood at 
the foot of the Loop to see if the child survived 
when the wild rush was over. It had. I turned 
away much easier in my mind, but still unable 
to comprehend such a parent. She was a new 
kind of mortal to me. Doubtless her child will 
grow to a robust manhood, and, at the ripe age 
of ninety-two or thereabouts, expire quietly in 
his bed. 

The Rolling Waves attract you next, perhaps. 
On a floor that perpetually heaves through some 
clever electrical contrivance, and which is painted 
green to resemble the tossing ocean, chairs are 
sent forth, like ships from a wharf. Two people 
sit in these, and one seeks to guide the chair 
around the "sea" and try his best not to bump 
into another "ship." It is great fun, and there 
are always loud shrieks and yells. When you 
miraculously come back to port, the attendant 
always suggests another trip; and rather than get 
out of your straps, you stay comfortably in. 
Thus do the dimes disappear at Coney Island! 

144 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

It takes strength of character to resist a "barker." 
It is his profession to urge and cajole. He has 
been a close student of human nature. He sizes 
you up at a glance. He knows how to lure you 
into his net, whether he is selling seats on the 
scenic railway or bidding you see the very fattest 
woman in all the world. His megaphone is loud 
in the land of Coney Island, and never does his 
rasping voice cease for an instant. Somewhere 
he is always calling to you, and his eloquent 
appeals, whether in verse or prose, win you in 
the end. I heard one "barker" cry, on behalf 
of his vaudeville entertainment, 

"Come, buy your tickets, and step in line — 
I 'm sure the show will be very fine!" 

I could not resist so natural a poet — the antithesis 
of the verse libre school, which has so often an- 
noyed us all. They should go to Coney Island, 
and learn something of scansion from this inspired 
"barker." 

Merry-go-rounds — carousels is a more impor- 
tant way of naming them — have always fasci- 

145 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 



1 



nated me. I like trying to capture the brass ring, 
even now; and when, as so often happens at a 
place like Coney Island, where the crowds are 
indeed dense, I am forced to take an inside seat, 
which makes it impossible for me to reach for 
the rings as we whirl past, I am consumed with 
grief. I like the mechanical spanking steed on 
the outer rim — those balky horses that leap and 
plunge — not the quiet and unromantic carriages 
near the music-box. They seem to have been 
put there for grandma and grandpa when they 
bring the children out in the afternoon. No! 
I always crave the exciting outside edge. And 
oh, the thrill of getting the coveted brass circle, 
and winning another ride for nothing! When 
will one be too old to lose this feeling of joy I 
I wonder. 

I have always said I would know I had crossed 
the Rubicon when I could go on with my break- 
fast and let the morning letters wait. I would 
like to add that I will know that my youth has 
definitely gone when I no longer am willing to 
leap on a merry-go-round and strive valiantly for 

146 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

the brass ring. Even to the tune of "Nearer, My 
God, to Thee," which was actually played by 
the organ when we were twirled about on a flash- 
ing carousel one night, I can still enjoy the jour- 
ney; and I pity with all my heart any man or 
woman who cannot. 

Also I like that sickening sensation when the 
car on the scenic railway plunges, in sudden dark- 
ness, down a sharp declivity, and seems about to 
leave the track. I like the yells of terror from 
my feminine neighbors — I know they are half 
put on; and I like the girl who uses the imminent 
danger as an excuse to lean closer to her lover and 
have his stalwart arms hold her safely in. I like 
to see humanity out on a holiday, nibbling its 
popcorn, chewing its gum, weighing itself, buy- 
ing its salt-water taffy, dancing its tired legs off, 
flirting outrageously, gaping before side-shows, 
slipping down toboggans that finally splash in 
turbulent water — in fact, making a complete fool 
of itself. A shop-girl and her sailor beau is a 
beautiful sight to me. His dare-devil extrava- 
gance, and her feminine clinging to his side in the 

149 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

surge of a place like Coney Island — what could 
be more healthily young and delightful? 

I like to see people staring at a certain booth 
where candy, for some undiscovered reason, is 
sold in a form that resembles lamb chops, roast 
beef, and sausages I What brain conceived this 
curious idea*? Why should delicious candy be 
any more delicious under a strange disguise of 
red meat? By what process of reasoning is it 
supposed to take on sweeter qualities, thus camou- 
flaged? (I had vowed never to use that word 
again; but one can't escape it!) 

I suppose it is the old P. T. Barnum theory 
of mob psychology: people like to be fooled. 
And, having been successfully fooled themselves, 
they like nothing better than seeing someone else 
fooled. We pay to be made ridiculous; and, in 
our good-natured Yankee way, we do not com- 
plain when we discover that the joke has been 
on us. No, indeed! We take pleasure in ob- 
serving the next fellow's discomfiture, followed 
immediately and inevitably by his fatuous grin. 

Corn on the cob must be eaten at Coney Island. 
150 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

Your visit is not complete unless you partake of 
this succulent food. Likewise you must buy a 
"hot dog." And always you crave another. 
The real way to go to this vast playground is to 
arrive about dinner-time, and enter one of the 
many good restaurants along the main thorough- 
fare. In some of them you will find as bright a 
cabaret as in any Broadway haunt, and the food, 
too, will be equally fine — and probably less ex- 
pensive. But do not over-eat; for one of the 
great pleasures of this racketty, rollicking resort, 
consists in nibbling at this and that dainty all 
during the evening. One's appetites — physical 
and mental — never seem to be satisfied when one 
is visiting Coney Island. Both the brain and the 
body are stuffed on such an expedition, and to 
such an extent that it is a wonder we do not die 
when the trip is over. Vendors are importunate 
at every turning, and as glib as the "barkers." 
They, too, are difficult to resist; and the odor of 
fragrant fresh corn is, to me, a temptation al- 
ways. 

What is there in aiming at a target that is 
151 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 



1 



so irresistible'? The shooting-galleries are for- 
ever popular; and once in a while, when some lad 
comes along who has Buffalo Bill's unerring eye, 
a crowd will gather to watch his crack shots; 
and all but the owner of the booth will urge him 
on. For glass is expensive, and it is not always 
easy to replace the ducks and globes that are 
shattered by such a fellow, who is often fresh 
from the army and likes to "show off" before his 
best girl. Small boys look on enviously, pray- 
ing for the day when they can do likewise, and 
hear the little bell sound that tells of the hitting 
of the bull's-eye; and their idolatrous gaze fol- 
lows him down the street when he nonchalantly 
strolls awa)% his girl on his arm, looking for new 
make-believe worlds to conquer. 

The monstrous swings may prove the next mag- 
net in one's peripatetic fever — swings that sweep 
in all directions from a huge center pole, and 
give one a real sensation of freedom. But more 
than likely the Bump-the-Bumps will win you first. 

Huddled in with about nine other idiots — 

152 




" You wouldn't stop now for the world ' 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

the more of you, the better — you find yourself 
holding your hat between your knees, and bob- 
bing about in a circular car this way and that; 
zigzagging, terror-stricken, over innumerable ob- 
stacles; lurching, falling, screaming, scrambling, 
growing dizzier and dizzier, and finally doing it 
all over again, though your hat is crushed and 
your arms are black and blue. 

Madness^ Yes. Midsummer madness. And 
it takes hold of us, this wild insanity, as inevitably 
as the warm months wheel round. Coney Island 
is a blessed escape from the boredom of routine; 
a merciful concoction that has all the effect of a 
dozen highballs with none of the disastrous next- 
day anticlimax. Most of us need relaxation, and 
need it badly, living, as we do, in the whirligig 
of New York, at high tension and top speed. 
Our inhibitions disappear at such piquant sum- 
mer resorts; and the psychologists, who are so 
learned in the matter of poor mortals letting off 
steam, would be the first to recommend dear old 
mad, glad Coney to the perennially weary busi- 

155 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

ness man who does n't have sense enough to know 
when to quit living on a schedule. 

It is interesting to note, every year, the changes 
that take place at Coney. The public would be- 
come satiated if novelties were not devised, if 
new fillups were not invented to take the mind 
from the world of humdrum affairs. What 
seemed wonderful last season may be absolutely 
out of date this summer. And just as a clever 
cook prepares a new dish every now and then to 
tempt the palate of the master of the household, 
so the men behind the scenes of America's mad 
playground wrack their brains for fresh ideas. 
Catchy slogans must be written; and sometimes 
these alone are sufficient to cause some old device 
to take on a new lease of life. It is as though 
a woman dyed her hair and appeared younger 
this year through the illusion. 

It is no small task to keep up the standard; 
and if anyone thinks it is nothing to gv.^ out 
signs that will attract the public's keen eye, let 
him try his hand at Steeplechase or Luna Park. 
Here is a world all its own, just as the motion- 

156 



I 



AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND 

picture field is a place apart; and a certain type 
of mind is necessary if one is to be successful 
here. The art of entertaining the crowd — the 
gum-chewing, blase crowd that has ceased to be 
thrilled at old melodramas and now craves the 
more exciting food of the movies — is not some- 
thing that can be learned in a day, or a week, 
or even in a year. And I am not misusing the 
sacred word "art." For I am conscious of the 
serious problem that confronts those who would 
seek to make the people laugh — or even smile. 
What a responsibility to be a clown, and feel 
that at every performance you must evoke that 
loud whirlwind of mirth, or else go down to dis- 
aster as an entertainer I The very thought is 
enough to chill the blood of a sensitive artist; 
but because a real clown 2S an artist, and there- 
fore keeps within himself forever the heart of a 
child, with all a child's enthusiasm, he goes on 
and, childlike, draws the multitude to him. 

When the so-called Blue Laws are spoken of, 
I always smile. How little comprehension of 
humanity and its sorrows, the framers of this 

157 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

wretched legislation have I Do they not realize! 
that life, to the poor, is not always beautiful? 
That long hours behind a counter or running an 
elevator, or doing any of the other utilitarian 
acts so many of us must perfonn, hardly makes 
for happiness? The grind of life must be offset 
by a healthy dissipation — an indulgence, if you 
wish to call it that. There must be outlets for 
suppressed energy and wholesome desires. I 
doubt if any of the sour-visaged Blue Law men 
and women have ever been to Coney Island; for 
they probably think of it as an immoral, tempest- 
uous spot, unworthy a visit. A few days there 
would do them good. 

To be prim is not to be dignified; and I know 
of nothing so undesirable as spurious virtue, ac- 
companied inevitably by sanctimonious smirks. 
Give me, in preference, the raucous laughter of 
underbred but healthily happy crowds who, for- 
getting for a brief interval the sorrows of this 
world — made more sorrowful by the inclusion in 
it of Blue Law jack-asses — let themselves go, in 
such a spot as delirious, delectable Coney Island. 

158 



o 



CHAPTER VII 

SAG HARBOR AND THE NORTH SHORE 

NE might liken Long Island to a slice of 
bread cut lengthwise from a Vienna loaf. 
Many people, when they eat bread, leave the crust 
and go only after the middle. But once you de- 
cide to put your teeth into Long Island, as it 
were, the process would be reversed: you would 
go definitely for the outer rim, all those fasci- 
nating spots along the shore, both north and 
south, and leave the interior almost entirely alone. 
Yet now and then there is a fine plum in the 
middle, for there are lakes and bays that seem to 
have fallen, as in that sentimental song on Ire- 
land, from the very sky, and tiny towns have 
sprung up naturally on their edges. 

Such a village is Sag Harbor, leaning out over 
Shelter Island Sound, with Noyack Bay on its 

159 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

left, a shadowy, quiet place of dreams, with 
curious old houses that remind one of New Eng- 
land in its most romantic precincts — houses that 
have stood for generations and heard the noisy 
world rush by. And it is curious how, in a little 
American town like this one will run across a 
Chinese laundryman who has set up his shop far 
from his native land. A Hop Sing next to a 
garage on the main street of such a village I An 
anachronism that one finds it hard to understand. 
There are old fishermen here and roundabout who 
have never been to New York, no, not once in 
all their lives; yet they would tell one they had 
had a pleasant time of it, and would not count 
the years as lost which they have spent in this 
venerable village. 

An ancient, tired town by the water's-edge, 
Dreaming away its life in the afternoon. 

A shadowy, weary ghost behind a hedge, 
Under the Hght of the moon. 

A sad, old-fashioned woman in a shawl, 

Behind drawn curtains when the twilight nears. 

A stiff, prim matron at life's carnival, 
Yet with something that endears. 
160 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

Ernest and I had delightful friends at Sag 
Harbor, whither we went by train one perfect 
morning, the kind of friends who, knowing they 
were not to be at home on this particular day, 
nevertheless left word with Sarah, their marvel- 
ous cook, to prepare a luncheon for us that we 
knew would be fit for Lucullus, and bade us stop 
without fail at their cottage and make it our 
own. 

And we did. They lived on Hog's Neck, just 
across a little bridge, and the water kissed their 
lawn, so that they could go out for a swim di- 
rectly from the house and sit down to luncheon 
in their bathing-suits. They had a view that 
would delight the soul of any one, and I can 
think of nothing finer than to spend honeyed 
afternoons on their veranda, doing nothing at a)l. 

We left a note of thanks for Frank and Bertha 
Case, and we wanted to embrace Sarah, so lav- 
ishly had she fed us ; but the afternoon was mov- 
ing on, and there was some walking to be done 
before we reached a place where we could sleep 
that night. 

161 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Hog's Neck is real country, and the road leads |l 
straight to a primitive ferry. Upon the rocking 
little craft perhaps three automobiles, by much 
manoeuvering, could huddle, and about a dozen 
passengers; and when I asked the boys who ran 
it how often they made the trip, they answered 
in all honesty, "Oh, as often as any one signals 
from the shore." The strip of water that sep- 
arates Hog's Neck from Shelter Island is scarcely 
a stone's throw in width, and it is like crossing 
a miniature English Channel to get over. The 
water, choppy, and trying to be exceedingly dis- 
agreeable and rough, reminds one of a kitten imi- 
tating a tiger. If we had been in a little back- 
woods region of Georgia we could n't have found 
a more archaic ferry or one more enchantingly 
simple. 

The shores are deeply wooded on both sides, 
and here Long Island bears another aspect, and 
one can scarcely believe that this is part of the 
same island that is low and flat and dusty and at 
times fashionably foolish, or foolishly fashion- 
able, as one prefers. This is one of the great 

162 



% 














B 
s 

O 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

charms of the place — that it is so different in 
different localities, and the unexpected greets 
one at every turn. Who was it that said that 
water, to a landscape, is what eyes are to a hu- 
man face^ There are so many beautiful blue 
eyes on Long Island that the wanderer is always 
sure of expression and animation in the counte- 
nance of the country. 

If one should wish to leave Sag Harbor by 
another route than ours, I can recommend a back 
road, leaving the main street of the town on the 
left, that takes one to Southampton and all the 
points in that direction. Noyack Bay and its 
snug inlets and, later, Little Peconic Bay can 
be seen through the thick trees, and one can ride 
or walk here without meeting a soul. Once in a 
while there will be a cluster of farm-houses, and, 
miraculously, a shop of some sort, like a rose in 
a forest. But these will be but momentary hints 
of civilization. I trudged this road once with 
Peb, the companion of many a loafing trip, and 
we both said we had seldom come upon a more 
happily sequestered trail, and I remember we 

165 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

wondered why motorists did not use it more fre- 
quently. But of course then it would quite lose 
its charm, and simply become like any other thor- 
oughfare, a scenic railway for the shouting multi- 
tude. I recall a turning where we were in doubt 
as to which way to proceed, so we asked a farmer 
who happened at that moment to come out of his 
woodshed, delighted, I think, to see a human 
face. There was one other house in the neigh- 
borhood, and we asked him where we were. 

"Oh, you can call this Skunk's Corners, I guess. 
It ain't got no name." And then he politely di- 
rected us, and told us, as he leaned over the fence, 
seemingly eager to go on talking, that he was 
one of those many farmers who had never had 
the courage to make their way to the big city. 

But this road was not ours to-day. We were 
going across to the north shore, and after the first 
ferry we knew there would be another. Shelter 
Island is full of romantic suggestion. Almost in 
the center of it there is a tangled old graveyard, 
a veritable Spoon River cemetery, with tumbling 
headstones placed here many decades ago, at a 

166 



i 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

period when parents evidently opened the family 
Bible when a child came into the world and 
selected the name for it that the finger first fell 
upon ; for here sleeps many a Moses, Esther, Sam- 
uel, and Daniel, and there were likewise such 
quaint, old-fashioned names as Abbie, Calvin, Je- 
mima, Hepzibah, Caleb, Phoebe, and Asenath. 
At Shelter Island Heights there stands a rather 
grand hotel that seems to be filled all summer, for 
there are good fishing and sailing along these de- 
lightful shores, and many large craft seek safety 
here during storms, and thus is accounted for the 
island's beautifully practical name. City people 
fish from the piers, and Ernest and I saw dozens 
of catches within five or ten minutes. Indeed, it 
was so easy that it soon wearied us, if not the 
fishermen, for I prefer a little more uncertainty 
in any undertaking. The whitecaps tossed on the 
bay, and the water fairly churned and seethed as 
we waited for the larger ferry. Down on our 
right lay Manhanset, where there used to be a 
fine hotel until it was burned to ashes about three 
years ago. Now there is a club-house in its place. 

169 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

You can reach Greenport in about five minutes, 
a sleepy town at the railroad's end, a full stop, 
a period, as it were; yet there are snatches of a 
sentence beyond it, and if the words do not piece 
together properly, that is because few people take 
the trouble to hear them. 

Now, Ernest is an actor, and he has also been 
on the screen. Therefore I was not surprised on 
this out-of-the-way and tossing ferry to have a 
total stranger come up to him and tell him how 
much he had liked him in a certain part. An 
actor never quite gets away from the world; he 
is everybody's friend if he is at all popular, and 
even his profile is not his own. But I was hardly 
prepared for a second recognition, coming so soon 
after the first, when we walked up from the 
wharf through a street in Greenport. Here a 
young man of pleasant mien most cordially hailed 
him by name, and took us both immediately into 
his general store (though I did not matter at all), 
where everything from jewelry and clocks to plows 
and rubber gloves was for sale. Trade was a 
trifle dull that afternoon, and Ned was lonesome, 

170 



I 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

no doubt, and full of talk. He turned out to be 
the former dresser of stars like N?.t Goodwin and 
Shelley Hull, and when these two actors had died, 
he left the theater, though he loved it, married 
a motion-picture actress, and opened a shop in 
this far-off town. To see an actor in the flesh 
on this quiet street brought back with a rush the 
scent and memory of scenery and cosmetics, and 
he just could not help dragging Ernest in and 
talking over old stage-times. One could sense 
a latent and wistful craving for the theater, 
though he pretended to be enamoured of his trade. 
Yet he allowed customers to wait, I noticed, while 
he chatted on with his important friend. Thus 
do our scenes shift, and we find new sets in which 
to go on with our performance, such as it is, 
whenever the Prompter directs us. 

Greenport is full of ship-chandlers, and tall 
masts rock in the bay. In the winter-time the 
town virtually depends upon scallops and oysters 
for its livelihood, and the fishermen go out in 
hordes and come back laden with spoils. In 
November there is always plenty of duck-shoot- 

171 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

ing around Greenport, and it is no extraordinary] 
achievement for one man to bring home two! 
hundred birds a day. When a town is a hun- 
dred miles from New York, the people do not 
run in and out very often. A year may pass be- 
fore they go up to the city. And so they make 
their own lives in their own locality; and now 
with the long arm of the motion-picture theaters 
reaching into every nook and corner of the world, 
there is no excuse for lonely evenings. These 
theaters are patronized to the point of suffoca- 
tion, and on the enchanting moonlit night when 
we should have walked down country roads 
Ernest and I, through force of habit, went to 
view what turned out to be an atrocious film. 
We noted the long line of cars outside the hall — 
as long as a string at the opera, truly — and 
thought again of the responsibility of the makers 
of the unspoken drama. But what a story we 
sat through, with only one beautiful woman's 
face to redeem it ! We were not a little ashamed 
of ourselves for sitting there in the darkness, for 
one of the tragedies of living in a great city is 

172 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

the fact that seldom can we view the moon as 
she should be seen. "That pale maiden," as 
Shelley called her, requires, like all magnificent 
things, the right frame, the right setting, for a 
perfect revelation of her loveliness. In the coun- 
try the wide expanse around us gives the oppor- 
tunity we need to see her charms. The long, 
narrow corridors of town streets half conceal her 
wonder, and too soon she sails over the roof-tops 
and behind the clustered chimney-pots when we 
look up from some crowded thoroughfare, hoping 
for a glimpse of her serenity. Moreover, smoke 
may rise, like a veil, and the moon, unaware of 
our eagerness, may coquettishly hide behind it. 
She should know that she is hardly the type of 
woman, though she is very old, who requires arti- 
ficial aids to set off her glory. 

I often wonder if those who live in the coun- 
try are aware of the riches they possess in such 
abundance. A moonlight night in July or Au- 
gust is anything but lovely in the city. Out 
where the hills rise or the plains expand or water 
whispers, the world is drenched in a cascade of 

173 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

beauty, and sometimes the magic is such that 
makes the heart ache. Only for an instant does 
the moonlight rest on the iron streets, but for 
long hours it floods the valleys where the coun- 
try folk are privileged to dwell, and on many 
a cool cottage it tumbles in lavish Niagaras of 
peace. Yet "in such a night" we sat in a stuffy 
movie I 

Orient Point is the real period on Long Island's 
north shore, just as Montauk Point thus punc- 
tuates the south shore. The next morning Ernest 
and I determined to get there. Never was there 
a more perfect day, with diamonds dropping on 
the sound and in the bay. Just after East Ma- 
rion is reached there is a strip of land so narrow 
that Orient Harbor and the wide sound almost 
meet. In heavy storms the waves all but cross 
the road, and sometime we may have an Orient 
Island, beginning with Terry Point and extending 
the few miles eastward. A heavy stone wall de- 
lays the seemingly inevitable separation, but it 
may crumble in a gale of violence and cause 
Orient Point to be lonelier even than it now is. 

174 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

For the hotel is vacant — a long, low, brown build- 
ing as forlorn as a deserted railroad. Its closed 
eyes tell the passer-by it is sleeping in the shad- 
ows, and so few motorists get out this far that 
there is nothing to disturb its slumbers. It is a 
pity that they will not push toward this region, 
for the farm-lands are lovely, and the clean little 
homes are in refreshing contrast to some of the 
statelier mansions one can grow so weary of. 

We were told of Hallock's model farm, with its 
overhead system of irrigation, run by a man of 
ideas and his three sons. Potatoes and Brussels 
sprouts are the chief vegetables raised, and it is 
a sight to see long rows of plants with apparently 
endless lines of pipe above them, with clever ar- 
rangements for the turning on of water. The 
extensive farm runs to the edge of Gardiner's 
Bay, where the owner has his own wharf, his own 
boats for transporting his crops direct to the mar- 
kets of New York. Another young farmer in 
this neighborhood, where the soil is rich and fer- 
tile, earned, the legend runs, upward of thirty 
thousand dollars in one season; and if this is 

175 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

true and I am unconsciously creating a boom in 
real estate, I hope I shall not spoil the country 
for those already happily established there. Both 
Orient and East Marion are fine little villages, 
and I would not care to see them ruined by a 
sudden influx of passionate pilgrims determined 
to grow rich and stay forever. 

The path to the point is much like that on the 
south shore, narrow and crooked; and when you 
arrive at the tip of the land, the sense of being 
monarch of all you survey comes over you thrill- 
ingly. In the blue distance lies Plum Island, 
with Fort Terry like a sleeping lion upon it; and 
in between the brownish-red lighthouse, resting, 
apparently, on a single rock, yet impervious to the 
crashing waves. 

Some campers had pitched a tent on the lone- 
some shore of the point, and no doubt fared well, 
with fresh vegetables and fruit easily purchasable 
roundabout, and all the fish, and more, they could 
catch in the sea. 

Near East Marion is St. Thomas's home for 
city children, where seventy-five youngsters can 

176 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

be accommodated at one time. They come in 
relays every two weeks, and go back to town 
brown and ruddy, plump and spruce. 

The next town to Greenport of any size is the 
beautiful old town of Southold, which, five years 
ago, celebrated its two hundred and fiftieth anni- 
versary with a pageant during several days of 
festivity. The Rev. John Youngs came from 
England three hundred years ago and built the 
first house in Southold. This ancient building 
is still standing, just off the main street, and it 
was a German innkeeper, a man who had been 
in Southold twenty-three years, who directed us 
to it. When people settle in this charming vil- 
lage, you see, they generally remain; and it is no 
wonder, for the broad avenues are sheltered by 
tremendous arching trees, and quiet broods here, 
and peace is the town's best companion. The 
Presbyterian minister has also shepherded his 
flock for twenty-three years, and the ivy-grown 
cemetery, like the one on Shelter Island, is a per- 
petual reminder of vanished days, with Mehe- 
table, Temperance, Lorenzo, Salter, Dency, Abi- 

177 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

jah, Harmony, Arminda, Abner, Susa, Thaddeus, 
Erastus, and China (doubtless the son of an old 
sea-captain) all resting serenely while the world 
wags along. And a certain Samuel, so his tomb- 
stone informed us, was "gathered to his fathers 
like a shock of corn fully ripe." 

As Ernest and I passed out of it on our way to 
Cutchogue (which sounds like a sneeze, but is 
really a nice little town), we heard Caruso's 
voice coming from a phonograph in a poor man's 
home, a modern note, literally, in a quaint old 
village that has snuggled under its trees these 
many years. 

We shall always hold Southold in specially 
happy remembrance, for it was there while sit- 
ting on the porch of the inn, that a young man, 
overhearing us speak of our walking trip, straight- 
way offered, if we felt tired, to take us on to the 
next village in his runabout; and when we de- 
clined, with thanks, his unexpected offer, we dis- 
covered that he made his suggestion despite the 
fact that in a short time he was going to take a 
charming young lady riding in the opposite di- 

178 



I 








" Caruso's voice coming from a phonograph " 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

rection. Courtesy to two strangers could surely 
go no further, and when we saw him dash hap- 
pily away with loveliness beside him, we cer- 
tainly wished him well. But a town as nice as 
Southold would be sure to contain just such nice 
folk. 

After we had left Southold and walked sev- 
eral miles, we stopped under a tree to refresh 
ourselves. Few motors were out on this lovely 
afternoon, and we were in no hurry at all. 
Ernest is English, and though we had had a deli- 
cious luncheon at Southold, he craved his tea, 
and began to ruminate on the lovely inns of Eng- 
land, where one could always drop in and get 
some bread and cheese and bitter beer, if nothing 
else. The mere mention of these delicacies made 
my mouth water. 

"There is nothing to do," I said to my reminis- 
cent friend, "except to press on to Riverhead, 
maybe stealing or begging a ride; for there's not 
a place along here where we can get even a 
snack." 

Indeed, the road was a canonical one, with 
181 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

little to interest us save now and then a clump 
of beautiful trees, I was hot and dusty, too, 
and suddenly, for no reason at all, but prompted, 
no doubt, by the same imp that had lured us 
into the movies, I wanted to see a New York 
paper. I wanted it, I suppose, because I knew 
I could not get it; and Ernest began to laugh at 
the strings that still held me to the city, country 
pilgrim though I pretended to be. And he re- 
minded me of that line of Hazlitt's, in the essay 
"On Going a Journey," "I go out of town in order 
to forget the town and all that is in it." 

"Ah," I answered, "but does n't he also speak 
of the advantages of walking alone"? Talkative 
companions, he held, were — " 

"I won't speak all the rest of the way, if that 's 
how you — and Hazlitt — feel," Ernest answered, 
with a smile in the corner of his mouth; and 
though later I begged for his clever conversation, 
he was adamant and would not converse at all 
until we got to a cross-roads near Mattituck. 
Here was an inn, not comparable with the Eng- 



182 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

lish taverns, of course, where people "met to 
talk," a sign informed us, punning outrageously. 

"The very place to break your silence," I sug- 
gested to my friend; and, laughing, we went in 
for tea. 

Two young ladies had a table near us, and I 
gathered from such scraps of their conversation 
as came to us that they were librarians, out on a 
jaunt also, but in a car. They left the room 
first, and Ernest and I, sitting by the window, 
could see them as they stepped into the smallest 
insect of the road I have ever beheld — nothing, 
literally, but a child's express-wagon, with a 
home-made attachment in the nature of a steering- 
wheel, and a mysterious little engine concealed 
somewhere which caused the wagon to vibrate 
down the road. They rattled off, their tiny suit- 
case on the back, as happy, apparently, as we. 
They saw our patronizing smiles as they went 
down the path, and smiled back good-naturedly, 
not at all flirtatiously. I suppose they guessed 
we were laughing at their makeshift conveyance. 



183 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

but they had the air of being used to that sort 
of thing and seemed not a whit embarrassed at 
what we thought. 

An hour or so later, riding in a fine motor be 
cause we had dared to ask a lift, we encountered 
these girls on the road. They had had engine 
trouble, and, recognizing us, blushed with morti- 
fication. I suppose they imagined we were in our 
own car, and we were just snobbish enough to 
like them to think so. 

Our triumph was short-lived, however. Two 
miles or so farther on, our host dropped us, as 
he turned to the right and our path lay straight 
ahead. And it was not long before we heard a 
strange rattle behind us, and those gay librarians 
sailed by us, waving their handkerchiefs and call- 
ing out, "Say, who's lucky now*?" It was we 
who were humiliated as they faded into the land- 
scape, going, I should say, not fewer than twenty- 
five miles an hour in their homely little box-car, 
like so much pretty freight. But just before they 
disappeared, and knowing, perhaps, that they 

184 










Riverhead 



SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE 

would never see us again, one of them blew us a 
kiss — yes, fearlessly she did it, this prim librarian 
off on a summer holiday ! 

In Riverhead there is a lovely little garden 
which the motorist will be sure to mise. That 
is one of the compensations of walking — you come 
upon spots of beauty almost accidentally. For 
instance, had I not gone into a chemist's shop 
for some tooth-paste and, in coming out, looked 
down the street, I would never have caught a 
glimpse of water that beckoned me from the road. 
A private dwelling stood at the intersection of 
two paths, and at first I was afraid I was tres- 
passing; but no signs deterred my progress, and 
soon I came to this miniature Cliff Walk, sur- 
rounding a lake at the river's head, with a dam 
flowing toward the village, and flowers blooming 
in rich profusion all about. The backs of sev- 
eral charming houses looked out upon this en- 
chanting enclosure, and along the narrow way 
moved young lovers in happy pairs. Riverhead 
itself is nothing but a stereotyped, dull town, with 



187 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

a big jail, a monument or two, and several con- 
ventional hotels; but this spot lies like a jewel | 
on its breast. 



188 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE 

WE had intended, on another jaunt, to 
go from Riverhead to Wading River, 
touching the villages roundabout and getting 
glimpses of the Sound in all its lavish color, and 
working our way to Oyster Bay. This time I 
was with Feb, and once more the weather could 
not have been finer — crystal clear in the morn- 
ing, yet warm, with now and then a haze ; for we 
were deep in August, and the world sometimes 
drew a veil around itself on these torrid after- 
noons. 

But the road from Riverhead was anything but 
exciting. It led us to a wide, bleak, dusty, un- 
developed, seemingly endless highway, and we 
grew mighty weary of our tramping. There is no 
sense in trying to make headway when one feels 
like this. The map had not told us how stupid 
this region was to be; so we made up our minds 

189 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

we would hail the first passer-by on wheels and 
crave the blessing of a lift. To get to a town 
was the only wise thing to do. There we could 
loiter about in the shade, and perhaps reach the 
water and take delight in looking on long, sandy 
stretches of beach. 

But travelers on wheels evidently knew this 
forlorn and scraggly precinct and would have 
none of it. I don't recall, in all our journeying 
along main roads, that there were ever fewer cars 
rolling by us. However, after we had been mak- 
ing the best of it for several miles, a man came 
along in a handsome car, and we looked long- 
ingly at the empty back seat of his machine, and 
hailed him politely. Instead of pausing, he took 
on added speed, and whizzed forward in such 
haste that he left us railing at him in a cloud of 
thick dust. I hope he had a breakdown or that 
the village constable arrested him for speeding, 
for I never wanted a ride more, and I was parched 
with thirst. It is n't pleasant to contemplate 
such a selfish soul when one is footsore and hot 
and hungry all at once. 

190 




We grew mighty weary " 



THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE 

But our next motorist, if one cares to call a 
butcher in a cart by so high-toned a name, was far 
more human, even though his business was the 
unpleasant one of killing cattle. He took us 
aboard with an exceeding warmth of spirit. 
Maybe he was lonesome; but he said anywhere 
we wanted to go, he 'd take us there. We liked 
him for that, — who wouldn't*? — and when the 
road forked, and he slowed down to let us decide 
whether we wanted to go on to Wading River 
or continue with him to Smithtown, we of course 
told him Smithtown was good enough for any 
sane traveler, particularly as it was his village, 
and he had praised it as I have heard few resi- 
dents praise their own birthplace. Smithtown 
was, according to him, the finest little place on the 
whole island, and we would n't be making any 
mistake if we spient the night there. Hotels^ 
Of course; several of them, and he, being an old 
inhabitant, would take us personally to which 
ever inn we chose, and make sure we were put 
up comfortably. A thriving place, a most pro- 
gressive town, full of nice people. Oh, yes, 

193 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Smith town was O. K., and he did n't care who 
heard him say so, and he 'd tell the world. He 
did n't mean to be boastful, but — 

Thus he rambled proudly on as we drove 
through desolate country, and almost wished wc 
had gone our own way. We came at last to the 
entrance to Camp Upton, now almost deserted or 
soldiers, but with the rifle-range still active. 
Then we passed down shadowy roads, with here 
and there a farm-house that seemed miles from 
anywhere, for this is a sparsely settled district. 
A gorgeous sunset was before us, and as the twi- 
light came down like a slow curtain at the opera, 
we wondered why more people did not know 
about this fine road through the middle of the 
island, and use it instead of the more sociable 
thoroughfares that lead to town. We went by 
beautiful Artists' Lake, through Coram, Selden, 
and New Village, and I kept thinking that surely 
the next town must be our destination. It was 
getting chilly, and of course we had no coats, and 
our butcher did drive fast and was everlastingly 
chatty. 

194 



THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE 

Finally I ventured to ask him how much far- 
ther we had to go, and he answered nonchalantly, 
"Oh, maybe eight or nine miles." But it seemed 
to us we must have traveled twenty, and it was 
getting on to half-past eight, and both of us 
were disgracefully hungry, when some straggling 
houses at length came in view. These, I thought 
with relief, must form the outskirts of humming 
little Smithtown. In a moment the electric signs 
of the movie-theaters would greet our eyes, and 
we would eat in a brilliantly lighted dining-room 
(I could visualize the typical American hotel), 
and then we would swiftly fall into a deep sleep, 
despite the fact that glittering signs winked in at 
us through our windows. 

"Are we nearing your home town*?" Ernest in- 
quired. 

"We 're in it," our butcher replied- Every 
goose was a swan to him. Instead of the roaring 
main street we had thought of, we found our- 
selves in what was virtually a pasture, with 
houses scattered all about us; and in a moment 
the hotel, around which I had imagined trolleys 

195 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

would heave and dash, was before us — a calm 
somnolent frame building on a little knoll, with 
only one lamp in the window, and an innkeeper 
and his wife who welcomed us with true bucoli( 
hospitality. We were overjoyed with the silence 
and the peace of it. Cobblestones'? We founc 
none in Smithtown; only soft, clean, winding 
streets and lovely trees and birds and flowers. 

The country in this neighborhood is delightful, 
and one can ramble about it for miles and never 
grow weary of it. There are little hills and cozy 
turnings, waterfalls and sequestered farm-houses 
and larger estates, some of real magnificence. 

Running through the middle of Long Island 
is the fascinating line of the Motor Parkway, 
built several years ago for the delight of the 
motorist who revels in high speed, and is happy 
only when he has the right of way. It begins 
just north of Floral Park, and leads direct to Lake 
Ronkonkoma, where the French restaurant called 
Petit Trianon has been for many seasons, a dream 
spot if ever there was one. The lucky motorist ! 
How many places there are of mushroom growth 

196 



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Smithtown 



1 



THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE 

that are only for him ! But coming for luncheon 
at this inn, he will be likely, being a speed fiend, 
to go back as he came, on the glistening Parkway, 
and miss the rustic beauties of the town of Ron- 
konkoma, where Maude Adams lives in seclusion 
during the summer. So, while he gains much, he 
also loses a great deal; and, while the king's 
highway is beautiful, like all things kingly it is 
lonesome; and save for an occasional toll-gate 
keeper one encounters few people on this level, 
gleaming stretch that runs like a long, smooth, 
brown-velvet ribbon beneath the wheels of one's 
car. 

Though we missed the province between 
Wading River and Port Jefferson and Setauket 
at one time, we took the trail on another occasion, 
passing through such lovely villages as Shoreham, 
Rocky Point, and Miller's Place. The towns 
themselves, which are very popular as summer 
colonies, are not literally on the water, but some 
of them reach out to the Sound, and bathing pa- 
vilions, like jeweled fingers, touch the sandy 
shore. This has always been for me one of the 

199 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

high spots of Long Island, perhaps because I can 
never forget a paradisial week I spent here sev 
eral years ago at the lonely cottage of a friend, 
with only one servant to look after my needs. ] 
recall sunrises of tropic beauty, and flaming sun 
sets that could not be matched even along the 
Mediterranean, and hours of such complete soli- 
tude that I completely erased the thundering city 
from my brain and existed only in a realm of 
dreams. There was one day of tapping rain, 
when a roaring fire was necessary, though it was 
summer then, too. For the remainder of that 
week I walked along miles of sun-smitten beach, 
as alone as the first man in the Garden of Eden, 
and never again do I expect such a sense of calm 
as came over me then. 



200 



CHAPTER IX 

OYSTER BAY AND ROUNDABOUT ROSLYN 

ONE thinks of Long Island as flat. So it is 
in many parts; but roundabout Roslyn, 
Oyster Bay, and Locust Valley, and even at the 
Westburys, Old and New, there are hills, if not 
mountains ; and nature has been lavish in her gift 
of water, so that a house built on a rise of ground 
commands a fine view, with clean mirrors reflect- 
ing the sun and moon. 

There are no end of by-ways here, and plenty 
of back roads to ride horseback. Often, in going 
to Huntington, where William Faversham has a 
home, I had looked from the train window as we 
came to Cold Spring Harbor, and determined one 
day to take that shadowy path leading from the 
station, so cool and fragrant did it seem. This is 
really one of Long Island's pleasantest localities. 
There is fashion, if you care for it, and country 

201 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

simplicity rubbing elbows over the fences and 
hedges, if you want that. 

The Piping Rock Club is here, with the house 
that Guy Lowell designed, a club-house with 
massive wooden pillars, and sensitively and sensi- 
bly conceived. A double polo-field sprawls di- 
rectly in front of the wide porch, and beyond that 
the golf-links, among the most beautiful in Amer- 
ica, meander away. At Fox's Point, a few miles 
down on the north shore, is the private bathing- 
beach for Piping Rock members, and the lanes 
that lead to it, for equestrians and motorists, are 
haunted, cool hallways, with canopies of green 
leaves and a soft carpet of earth. I do not know 
a prettier beach, or one where the water looks 
bluer and where, afar, the ships sail by so grace- 
fully. In this region there are heavenly roads, 
and quaint thatched cottages, and neat hedges 
that make one think of rural England. 

At fashionable Old Westbury there is the 
Meadowbrook Club, and polo is played here dur- 
ing the season by young men of stalwart frame. 
There are hunt meets, also, and the whole country- 

202 




y^Ar/ 



OYSTER BAY 

side is forever alive with sport of one sort or 
another. The late Robert Bacon, once our am- 
bassador to France, made his home at Old West- 
bury, and his widow and sons still live there. 
Otto Kahn has a splendid villa not far off; like- 
wise J. P. Morgan. The locality is rich in his- 
toric interest. 

Plandome, Manhasset, and Port Washington, 
particularly the latter, which is on Manhasset 
Bay, are charming spots in summer, and Sand's 
Point, jutting* out into the Sound, is beautiful in 
an Old-World way. Great Neck is a hive of 
theatrical celebrities. Their motors dash in and 
out, and many an actor commutes all the year 
round from here, finding it no trouble at all to 
reach his theater in time. 

Of course there are hundreds of little places on 
the south shore equally attractive. One thinks 
of Cedarhurst and Lawrence, prim with box 
hedges and barbered grass; and if one likes to 
mingle with the crowd, the first spot that comes 
to mind is Long Beach, with wheel-chairs and 
loud bands and jazz, and thousands upon thou- 

205 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

sands of bathers seeking what will always seem 
to me a hollow form of pleasure in the thickly 
populated sea. 

If for nothing else, Long Island would be fa- 
mous for two things: it was at West Hills that 
Walt Whitman was born, and it is at Oyster Bay 
that Theodore Roosevelt is buried. Two of the 
greatest Americans we ever produced I From 
1836 until 1839 Whitman published "The Long 
Islander" at Huntington, and later edited a daily 
paper in Brooklyn ; and for years Roosevelt lived 
at Sagamore Hill, drinking in the wonder of the 
harbor beneath his old home, finding it a shelter 
in his unbelievably busy life. How many pil- 
grims came to see him there I No small town in 
the world is better known, and the pilgrims con- 
tinue to come; but now, alas! to his final home 
on that hill in the village he loved and that loved 
him. 

Alec and I were two of those pilgrims on a cer- 
tain glorious summer day. Three thousand other 
folk had happened to choose that same morning 
for a like journey, and a few veterans of the 

206 



OYSTER BAY 

Spanish-American War had come to put a wreath 
on the grave of one of America's greatest men. 
I saw Charlie Lee, the colonel's former coachman, 
and later his chauffeur, sitting by the tomb — the 
simplest but most beautiful stone I have ever 
seen. There is nothing upon it but these words: 

THEODORE ROOSEVELT 

Born October 27, 1858 

Died January 6, 1919 

and his wife 

EDITH KERMIT 
Born August 6, 1861, 

Died 

A bronze wreath rests at the base of the stone, 
and upon this is engraved only this : 

A 
THEODORE ROOSEVELT 

Hommage 

de la 

Cote d'Azur 

I'Eclaireur de Nice 

Nothing more! And nothing more is needed. 
The simplicity of greatness! Just as he would 
have it. And if ever a man who loved and was 

207 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

willing to fight and die for democracy was buried 
democratically, it is T. R. An unpretentious, 
almost scraggly cemetery it is, with a plain white 
wooden arch for a gate — the sort of graveyard in 
which one would least expect to find the solemn 
tablet of a great man. At first I confess that it 
seemed to me too simple, too democratic, if such 
a thing can be; but after I had stood before that 
iron grating for a while I found myself thinking 
that I would not have had Theodore Roosevelt 
buried anywhere else in the world. For this 
grave is a symbol of the true America, a voice, as 
it were, that calls from the soil perpetually, 'T 
was one of you ; I am still one of you, resting here 
on this quiet hill." 

And indeed he is. No man, dead, was ever 
more eternally alive. Great-heart I "His soul 
goes marching on." 

Hail, but not farewell, Theodore Roosevelt ! 



208 



CHAPTER X 

DINNER AMONG THE STARS 

r I ^ HAT summer night, having walked several 
"*■ miles from Oyster Bay and growing weary 
of our tramp, I had a sudden inspiration. We 
would take a train to Brooklyn — which, somehow, 
one always forgets is on Long Island — and dine 
at a certain roof-garden I knew there. Alec was 
just the companion for such a dinner, for he had 
never in his life been in Brooklyn, never on Long 
Island until he walked with me these few days, 
having only recently come from the Middle West. 
He was one of those who, through the comic 
papers, and from vaudeville teams, had come to 
look upon Brooklyn as nothing but a jest. Little 
did he dream, as little many a Manhattanite 
dreams, that in this really lovely annex of the 
metropolis is one of the most fascinating restau- 
rants for miles about. And it is easily reached 
from any part of New York. 

209 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

Cool as a ship's deck, which it was built to 
resemble, was this open room that seemed literally 
to rest among the stars. We gasped at the pan- 
orama spread beneath us and around us. A 
blood-red moon, like a huge Japanese lantern, 
hung in the heavens. As though we could touch 
them if we would, the sky-scrapers of Manhattan 
stood in gigantic rows, with the silver ribbon of 
the river at their feet. The bridges, like cob- 
webs or delicate lace — it was hard to realize they 
were thundering* corridors of traffic, built of stern 
iron and steel — were just beginning to blossom 
with thousands of lights; and the stars, jealous 
of this lesser glory, came out of the black velvet 
of the sky in rapid battalions. Soon the night 
was a luminous globe, with ourselves in the cen- 
ter of it, amazed and appalled at the magnificence 
around us. This glowing world; was it a dream*? 
White sails spread themselves on the water, and 
ferryboats, like tiny worms of flame, crawled 
into the purple wharves, slipping authentically 
where they belonged. Far down the bay shone 
one mystical star — the torch of the Statue of Lib- 

210 



DINNER AMONG THE STARS 

erty; and Staten Island's home-lights began to 
twinkle and shine. A thin cloud would flash now 
and then over the face of the moon, which kept 
rising on the tide of the darkness, erased only 
momentarily from our vision, and then coming 
triumphantly forth again. 

It was an evening almost too wonderful to be 
true. Vaguely we heard the band behind us — 
soft, insinuating music that rose and fell — stringed 
instruments and the swish of dancing feet. 

But it was the city on the other side of the 
river that held us — that would always hold us. 
As though in a dream we watched it, etched 
against a tapestry, silent in its brutal strength, 
pitiless perhaps, but kind, too, as a great lioness 
is kind to her brood. Never can one be wholly 
free from the power and lure of Manhattan. 

In every sky-scraper a multitude of lights 
gleamed, until finally these turrets of flame were 
like Babylon on fire. Was this a modem city*? 
Oh, wonderful beyond all naming were the archi- 
tects who had conceived this terrible town by the 



211 



LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND 

sea, this seeming tumult of towers and ascending 
steel ! 

Who wrought these granite ghosts saw more than we 

May ever see. He saw pale, tenuous lines 

On some age-mellowed shore where cities rose 

Proudly as Corinth or imperial Rome ; 

He saw, through mists of vision, Bagdad leap 

To immaterial being, and he sought 

To snatch one curve from her elusive domes ; 

He saw lost Nineveh and Babylon, 

And Tyre, and all the golden dreams of Greece, 

Columns and fanes that cannot be rebuilt. 

These are the shadows of far nobler walls. 

The wraiths of ancient pomp and glittering days, 

Set here by master minds and master souls, 

Almost as wonderful as mountains are, 

Mysterious as the petals of a flower. 



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